A Debt To Be Repaid
by luna-proeliator
Summary: A debt he owed her, a debt she owed him, a dark past that lead them to this outcome: these things bound Sherlock Holmes and Ginevra Lorraine together. Despite years apart, they couldn't stay out of each other's way for long. She was sinking deeper into a homicidal madness; he grew violently bored with every dull case. Can they save each other from havoc and darkness? Sherlock/OC
1. Ginevra Lorraine

_A/N: Quick notes. One: if I have any of my previous readers out there, you will see similar themes to that of my other stories. Two: This is set between Series One Episodes Two and Three. Three: It will be update weekly as it's finished. Four: Forgive me for any American-isms. Five: Sorry for the bad summary. There's so much going on in this. It's impossible to fit it in a summary without giving keys points away. Six: Enjoy and please review!_

* * *

_Full Summary: "I have never owed anyone anything in my life expect for her. I owe her, and for years, I've kept a particular room in my mind palace just for her: to remind myself every once in a while, I still owe the insignificant woman." Three times Ginevra Lorraine and Sherlock Holmes have met in their school days before going their separate ways. Three times neither will forget ending in Sherlock believing he owed her a debt, Jen believing she owed him a debt, and a secret held that could ruin the both of them._

_Days wore on followed by years, and they met again in London. She was slipping and falling and trying to get a steady hand on her sanity, but homicidal madness crept in her mind and wore her down as she tried to keep her normal life, normal job, normal facade. He was bored, dreadfully so. Nothing entertained him long enough to be of interest. But it was all about to change. Was she the excitement and intrigue he needed, and was he the steady hand she needed to keep her from being the demon she could become? Could they keep the secret of the past away from the weary eye long enough? Could they settle their debt once and for all? Only time knows._

* * *

She slammed into the barrier and groaned as she fell to the ground before she quickly picked herself up. The crowd in the dingy, poorly lit, ramshackle warehouse cheered as the little slip of a woman stood. She was something of an underdog in the underground fight ring.

Her stance was strong and assertive, but her dark, nearly sunken in eyes were wide with something of fear and perhaps fatigue due to the deep shadows around her eyes. The freckles happened to be the only color on her face as the color of her skin was sickly pale as if she hadn't been out in the sun for ages. She practically glowed in the dark of the dimly lit building. Her hair puffy, uncontrollably curly chestnut colored mane had made an attempt to stay in a hairband, so her opponent wouldn't get the chance to pull on it. She was so small and slight that the crowd was convinced at first that this woman would not last more than two seconds in the ring with her large, Russian opponent. She's now been in the ring with him for ten minutes, and during that time, she looked to be toying with me.

He was a calm opponent, and he was respectful of her even if he was bashing her skull into the ground. She could feel the rush of adrenaline coming off him urging her to keep fighting, to give her a distraction from all the emotions swelling off the crowd and off herself.

She went to approach the Russian again, but her phone rang making her and her opponent pause. She was barefoot in a sports bra and fitted athletic pants cropped at the upper calf, so it was a wonder where she hid her phone.

"Ty ne protiv?" she asked him in a flawless Russian accent as she pulled her phone from her bra.

"Net," he muttered spitting spit mixed with blood on the ground from a sharp punch she had delivered to his gut.

"Hello, my dear," she said answering the phone. The crowd booed at the lack of action as her opponent allowed her the call.

"Jen," a voice said at the other end. "It's Molly." Though she already knew that. "You were supposed to meet for drinks, remember?" The crowd booed louder, and she could barely hear her friend on the other line even she was getting impatient with just standing there. She could feel the disappointment in the crowd, and the need for the fight to keep going. She had to keep going. "Where are you?" she asked confused.

"Football game," she said quickly as she gestured her opponent to continue the fight with her. She leaned her head to the side to keep the phone to her ear but keep her hands clear.

"It's 10 in the evening," she told her slightly confused as she ducked out from a swing her opponent aimed at her head.

"Um… bar then," she told her as she was grabbed by the hair and her head slammed into the barrier. She groaned and rolled out of the way of the Russian's foot ready to crush her.

"Are you okay?!" Molly asked hearing the groan from her lips. The phone was slightly to the left on the ground. She picked it back up quickly as she sprung to her feet.

"Wondrous. You were saying?" she asked.

"This is the third time this week that you've bailed out on me."

"I'm so sorry, Molly," she told her ducking under the Russian's swing. "I've just been really preoccupied."

"Do you want to do this a different night?" she asked her sounding disappointed as Jen jammed her heel in the Russians foot and sending an uppercut into his jaw.

"No, no," she replied jumping to the side as he tried to kick her feet out.

"So you'll be here then?" she questioned her as she dodged the Russian's swing once more. She ducked under his swing, kicked in his knee, slammed her palms to his ears, jabbed three ribs with several small but strong jabs, before kicking him hard through the barrier. He fell unconscious. The crowd roared. "Jen?" she questioned. "Where are you?!" she yelled.

"We just scored," she told her.

"I thought you were at a bar."

"I'll be there. Give me five minutes. I need to catch a cab," she said.

"Alright… I'll see you then," Molly replied hanging up. Jen raised her arms at the crowd, and the crowd roared for their underdog. She felt their shock but also their excitement and happiness. She absorbed it with a grin as the crowd tried to touch her hand, her hair, anything.

"I'll see you scum next Friday!" she called before jumping over the barrier. She grabbed her red jumper from a man in the crowd. He was a young blonde man with a handsome structure. It would be hard for one to tell he was the man in charge of the fight ring unless you knew him, and the woman knew him.

"Nice one, Lupa!" he shouted over the crowd handing her a bag as well as a stack of money.

"Thanks, Damon," she grinned kissing his cheek. "I've got to get going. I had previous plans I had forgotten."

"Have fun," he called as she ran out up the stairs of the warehouse and out onto the streets. She hailed a cab quickly giving him the bar that Molly and her were to meet for drinks at.

She rubbed her head in frustration. Her head was pounding and the light of the street lights were burning her eyes. She looked at her fingertips to see a slight amount of blood. She touched her head again. She had a rather large contusion where the Russian had slammed her head into the barrier.

"Are you alright, Miss?" the cabbie asked her looking at her through his rearview mirror.

"Hm?" she muttered rubbing the injury on her head. "Oh… I um… got into a bit of a row," she muttered her head swimming. She wasn't an idiot. She knew the symptoms of a severe concussion. It looked as though she would have to meet Molly a different night. "Can you take me somewhere else? I think I have a concussion…" Her body slumped down in her seat leaving a panicked cabbie with an unconscious woman.

* * *

"Good to see you, Jen," a woman said. Jen looked across the table at the mousy pathologist with her plain face and her nervous smile. The words good to see you were said evenly, but knowing Molly Jen knew it meant: Good to see you actually showed up.

"I'm sorry," Jen said giving a nervous smile to her friend. "I fell down the stairs in my flat, and I had to go to the hospital."

"What? Are you okay?" Molly asked her eyes widening at the thought of Jen in the hospital. She now felt bad for thinking bad things of Jen though in reality it was Jen's fault.

"Oh, I'm fine," she muttered rubbing her head. "I've just been ordered to rest by the doctors." Jen's eyes darted around the room as she eyed different people. She watched them. It was kind of her thing. She would sit in the café every afternoon and evening and just watch people walk in and walk out. She would notice their nervous ticks, listen to their conversation, decide their strengths and weaknesses, and psychoanalyze the simply because she found people to be utterly fascinating. They were so different and yet so similar. Their minds were just incredibly complex, and she determined to sort out each person's minds. What was the motive behind the color they were wearing? Why would they talk like that? Why would they gesture like that? It was all a completely fascinating puzzle to her. Molly noticed.

"Anything interesting?" Molly asked her following her eyes.

"Not particularly," she replied. "The woman in the corner is bipolar. The man at the bar is an insomniac, and you are very stressed out." She looked over the pathologist. She had a nervous twitch in her dominant hand, slight shadows under her eyes, and a change in heart rate.

"Two new murder victims showed up this week," she said with a slightly dramatic sigh. "I've had to perform all the autopsies as well as the usuals since Thomas is out of town on vacation."

"Hi Molly. Hi Jen," a waitress said brightly as she appeared to take their orders. "How are you guys doing?"

"Oh, Molly's a bit stressed," Jen told her, "and I'm trying to get Phil to stop riding my ass about the damn Grover case."

"Grover case?" the waitress asked.

"There's this kid his parents sent to me, and I keep telling them nothing's wrong with him. He's just being a normal kid, who's bored, and they have no time to pay attention to him," she replied moodily. "How are you, Liz?"

"Busy, busy, busy," she said with a smile. "Two coffees?" she asked.

"Yes, please," Molly said before Liz left them.

"How's the thing with that detective going?" Since Jen met Molly, two years ago, she often spoke of the mysterious detective that came to her place of work to request favors ranging from use of her equipment to the use of the bodies of the morgue. However, Molly has said nothing of him other than he has an incredible intellect, that he's a detective, and that she's too nervous to ask him to dinner. Molly wouldn't even tell Jen his name, not that Jen blamed her as she would find it her civil duty to track down this man and demand he go out to dinner with dear, sweet Molly.

"There is no thing," Molly reminded her.

"There should be thing," Jen sighed glancing out into the street. She felt a twinge of irritation that she knew had come of Molly. She frowned. "Sorry… it's not my business." Molly smiled gently at Jen.

"You only mean the best for me," Molly said being the always understanding friend she was. Molly was good for her. She was quiet but very loyal, and like Jen, Molly could tell when people were upset even when they tried to hide it. Liz came back and set both glasses of coffee in front of them. Molly and Jen continued to talk until Jen's phone alarm went off telling her she had a client waiting for her, so she headed back to her office.

* * *

She was completely and utterly unorthodox, but she was effective. Ginevra Lorraine was the best in the field of psychology, and although she had an office in Saint Bart's, she was often not there. Instead, she took her clients to a variety of places depending on their own problems and what would suit them the best. Today, her current client was a fifteen year old girl by the name of Carrie. She was the daughter of a rich entrepreneur and his wife, whose ideals were more set for the 19th century than the 21st. Carrie, meanwhile, had driven two previous psychiatrists to leave their field before they had contacted Jen, and Jen… well, Jen loved her audacious personality. It reminded her of herself just a bit saner than Jen.

"Do you have to do that in here?" Molly asked as Jen and Carrie used to wall to the morgue to play racket ball. It looked a bit ridiculous as they were in dress clothes, though neither seemed to care either way. Both had ditched their shoes to the side. Molly, meanwhile, was trying to determine the exact time and cause of death of a recent murder, and they were being distracting. "There are buildings specif-"

"I'm not paying someone to use their wall!? That's just ridiculous!" Jen told her with a grunt as she hit the ball against the wall. Molly rolled her eyes and continued with what she was doing. The sound of the ball slamming against the wall echoed throughout the morgue.

"What's the point of this?" Carrie asked hitting the ball aggressively.

"Does it have to have a purpose?" Jen asked her hitting the ball back with equal aggression. "Sometimes you have to do things that seem a little crazy, because sometimes crazy isn't always crazy" Carrie hit the ball back at her.

"Isn't this the part where you tell me what's wrong with me? If you're as clever as they say you are, you should know by now."

"Want to know what's wrong?" Jen panted. "Nothing." Whack!

"Nothing?" Carrie asked nearly being hit by the ball as she stared at her shrink in surprise. She was beginning to think there was something very odd with this one, and she would be correct.

"That's the problem with other psychiatrists in my field. They look for problems. You're a normal, intellectual girl with parents who expect perfection. If anything, it's them who need therapy. They're delusional." Carrie laughed as Jen hit the ball back.

"You have experience with that?" Carrie asked hitting the ball back. A sudden wave of anger struck her.

"My brother," she snapped hitting the ball far too hard making Carrie jumped out of the way. Molly barely managed to duck at the incoming ball.

"Jen!" Molly yelled.

"Run," Jen told Carrie as they both ran out of the morgue with Molly rolling her eyes at her childlike friend. Sometimes, she could be a handful though if Molly was honest, she rather liked it that way.

* * *

_Another A/N: No Sherlock this chapter. Just a brief on Ginevra Lorraine. Next chapter. Review please! Also feel free to PM me or ask for images and the like! -Luna_


	2. The Set Up

She enjoyed crime. Well, saying she enjoyed crime bordered on the psychopathic, so instead, she told people she was interested in the minds of criminals. They were utterly fascinating, and so often, when she had free time, she would open the newspaper, as she wasn't a frequent user of a computer other than for work, and look to see who was arrested and what for. She would nitpick the details and attempt to diagnose the criminals.

Today, on this fine day, Jen picked up to find that the killer dubbed the London Maniac was arrested. Her eyes fell on the picture of a one Jeremy Yates. He was a middle aged man, who had a rather aggressive look to him. He had a scar over his lip, and he seemed to have a lazy eye. She frowned deeply and quickly read the article.

"Bunch of fucking idiots," she snapped throwing the paper to the side before she dialed the number for directory assistance not caring if they slapped additional charges on her.

"Directory assistance, how can I help you?"

"Harris and Associates, Attorney at Law," she said before being redirected. It was three in the morning, but she had a feeling Mr. Harris would still be in working at Yates case.

"Mr. Harris speaking," a voice muttered sounding exhausted.

"Mr. Harris. My name is Doctor Jen Lorraine. I'm a psychiatrist at Saint Bart's, and I'm considered the person to come to when it comes to the human mind. I won't go into detail on my accomplishments as I'm sure you'll look me up after this conversation. I was reading an article on Mr. Yates, and I think you'd like to know your client is innocent, and I can prove it at trial."

"Doctor Lorraine, I believe you've just became my savior," he told her sounding ecstatic.

* * *

She watched the trial all rather bored about it. She had told no one of the fact that she would be on trial defending Yates, but she felt it was her job to do this. She wouldn't let an innocent man go to jail while there was a maniac running around hacking at people. It was absurd.

"The defense would like to call Doctor Ginevra Lorraine to the stand," the defense called. Jen stood straightening her pencil skirt she had worn for the occasion. She stood on the stand and swore to tell the truth as was necessary before the questioning began. "Doctor Lorraine, before we begin, I'd like you to tell the court your qualifications," the attorney told her. She took a breath.

"I was born to a brilliant, schizophrenic chemist and an eccentric, bipolar genius. My older brother is a sociopathic politician, my younger brother is a literal psychopath, and my little sister is a nymphomaniac with anti-social personality disorder. Needless to say, I've been around mental illness my whole life. I graduated at the age of twenty-two years old from Cambridge University with a degree in psychology and criminal law. I was valedictorian of my class, and by that time, I had written three psychology books under the name Doctor Jacob Facet. From there I worked with Scotland Yard for two years as a criminal profiler. I published two more books as well as a number of articles for a variety of newspapers and magazines. I was then hired by the British government as a profiler to strengthen national security. I was head of the department in three months. However, I didn't agree with the politics and found them rather boring. I quit, and I was hired at Saint Bart's and promoted to head of the psychiatry department within a year. I am still an employee there. However, I also work as the occasional private profiler, something nearly unheard of, and psychiatrist, and I continue publishing dozen of articles and numerous books, most having to do with psychology."

"So your good in you field?" the defense asked almost as if to state the point.

"Good is an understatement. I'm the best in my field," she informed him.

"Doctor Lorraine, explain to me the conditions that brought you here."

"I was sitting in my office late at night as I often stay my nights at St Bart's doing research or simply going over my files, and I was reading the newspaper when I saw the article declaring Mr. Yates a serial killer, and I knew I had to call his attorney."

"Why?"

"Because he didn't do it," she told him.

"How do you know that?"

"It's obvious," she told him. "May I uh…" she gestured to the floor.

"You may," the judge granted permission, and she stepped down to the floor and took the prosecution's enlarge pictures of the stab wounds that they had previously used for their effort to convict.

"Look at these wounds," she said pointing them out to the jury and the judge. "They're very deep, very erratic. They don't have a particular pattern. There are mistakes on a few of them as if the killer was in a rush. The man who made these marks, he's aggressive, but he… he's not in his right mind. These marks show me that the killings weren't done by someone who was planning it. It was done by someone with a damaged psyche. They suddenly cracked and pretty much jumped the nearest person stabbing them to death."

"And that's not Mr. Yates?"

"Oh, no. God, no," she said giving the prosecution back their photo. "Mr. Yates has received childhood injuries on his lip and his eye. It's made it him a pacifist."

"How can you tell?"

"His stance," she told them. "When he took the picture, he was covering his scars not liking to be seen. He didn't stand as if aggressive. He stood very passive. His shoulders were slouched down, and his head was held in shame, shame that he was so deformed that people would automatically think him a killer. The killer, his psyche will be visibly damaged. His hands would twitch, his muscle tighten, and even the little provocation would set him off. I guarantee that if you looked at the film of his arrest and interrogation, he would be shaking. He may have admitted guilt as a way to avoid confrontation." She stood back on the stand.

"Doctor Lorraine, do you know who Sherlock Holmes is?" the defense asked. She sighed. Of course she knew who Sherlock Holmes was. She had been avoiding him since she moved back to London three years ago, but it became increasingly difficult as he became something of a celebrity in both the law enforcement community and psychology community. His mind was a fascination to those in her field.

"Yes, I do," she told him.

"Are you aware he is what's called a consulting detective?"

"I'm aware," Doctor Lorraine told him a bit bitterly.

"He's unique. He consults with Scotland Yard using a bit of a trick-"

"It's not a trick," she told him. "It's a science. He uses a various fields to discover things usually hidden to people."

"Sherlock Holmes is the one who assured Scotland Yard that Mr. Yates is the London Maniac." Jen's face contorted into irritation. So what his word is holy now?

"Yes, well perhaps Scotland Yard shouldn't take the word of sociopaths, and actually do their jobs," she muttered rather bitterly. "Mr. Holmes misses the obvious. He described the killer to tee, but he failed to see that Yates isn't that man he described."

"Thank you, Doctor Lorraine," the defense said sitting, and it was the prosecution's turn.

"Doctor Lorraine, you claim to be an expert in your field and to be fit to a-"

"Don't do that," she replied exhausted from this whole thing already. "You're about to try and discredit me?" She laughed. "Oh, dear. I could discredit your entire defense. Detective Inspector Lestrade is stressed out. He's been having panic attacks. Trouble at home. He's missed marriage counsel. Who's to say that's not clouding his mind? Your witness Miss David's is an insomniac, who can't decide what's real between reality and the hallucinations caused by lack of sleep. Your forensic scientist is an obvious idiot who can't keep it is pants. Mr. Holmes is a bit difficult. I'm trying to decide if he's just a sociopath, a full-fledged psychopath, or if he has Asperger's either way he's a nut case. And you, you're a workaholic with no time for personal relationships leaving you unfulfilled as you want children you don't have time for. Where were you? Oh, yes, you were trying to discredit me by informing the jury and the judge that I'm a psychopath. I'd like to inform you that I have borderline personality disorder that I'm heavily medicated for. Any other questions?" The prosecution fell silent in a shock at Jen's little speech. "Great, then I'll be home, because quite frankly, there's a murderer still out in London and he kills between the hours of twenty-one and four, and by the way, Mr. Yates is scared of the dark." She stood from the stand and left the crowd in chaos. The judge was ordering silence, but no one was listening. They were all worked up by Jen's conclusion.

* * *

Sherlock was just minutes from losing his mind. He had no case after he had closed the London Maniac case, and he had declined numerous cases today already. John, meanwhile, was not helping it. He had the news on what Sherlock was sure was an abnormally loud volume as he currently mulled over an experiment he had just finished.

"Sherlock," John called over to him.

"I'm busy," he told him looking through his microscope trying to ease his boredom.

"Sherlock, you might want to see this." He ignored John once again. "Sherlock!" Sherlock sighed and stood from his chair before walking into the sitting room.

"It better be important, John," he told him his eyes falling on the screen with the news. The headline read: Breaking news: Yates Declared Innocent. His jaw clenched. How was that possible?! The evidence against him was solid. Currently, there was an expert on answering any questions the reporter had.

"And you believe it was her testimony that lead to his being acquitted?" the reporter asked the expert.

"Oh, there's no doubt. She left an impression on the jury and even went as far as to discredit the prosecution."

"A lot of people are claiming that a possible mistrial will be ruled. Do you think that will be the case?"  
"Oh, without question, but she's put doubt in Londoners' minds. I don't believe that they will find a jury that won't already believe Mr. Yates isn't the London Maniac."

"For those of you just joining us, Jeremy Yates, the man claimed to be the London Maniac, has just been acquitted," the reporter told her audience. "Credit to the jury's ruling is currently going to Doctor Ginevra Lorraine, a psychiatrist at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, and the author of several books under the name Jacob Facet. We will now go to the courtroom to replay her testimony." The camera cut to a replay Jen's brilliant testimony, and Sherlock looked at the screen in disbelief. Her image burned into his mind, and he couldn't help but recall all those years ago. It was an event that in the scheme of things shouldn't have held a place in his mind palace, but Ginevra Lorraine had had a room in his palace though he had only spoken to her twice…

* * *

_"Want a cigarette?" she asked holding out Sobranie Black Russian. He knew it was her cigarette of choice. That was easy seeing as she always smelled like them: Sobranie Black Russian and gum turpentine. He wondered briefly about the last bit as she took a drag on her own cigarette. He paused for a moment looking between the girl and the cigarette._

_\She was still a small slip of a girl, but her attitude especially her anger could overwhelm people. She was rebellious with piercings on her eyebrow, nose, at least ten times on her ears, her lip, and he was sure she had a few more not in sight. She had tattoos up her arm of various pictures or sayings, and her hair was dyed a platinum blonde. A relaxer was keeping it straight as it hung short with half her face covered by bangs. Her school skirt was pulled too high; she had too few buttons on her shirt. He could see her red lace bra under peeking through. The blazer that completed her uniform was twisted in a knot around her waist. Her makeup was too heavy, and if Sherlock didn't know who she was, he would have mistaken her for a prostitute, but he didn't know who she was. He only thought he did, but he had only met her once, and that was not the most pleasant of circumstances. _

_\He took the cigarette from her. He was just dying to have a smoke. She pulled a zippo from her bra and clicked it on lighting it for him. He didn't mutter a 'thank you'. Of course, he didn't. He leaned against the wall with her taking a drag._

_"I saw you in the front row again," she told him. They were out back in the alley next to the school theater A brilliant performance of Hamlet had just been performed, and Jen had betrayed the madness of Ophelia. "How did I do?"_

_"I believe you've slapped the scholars in the face with that performance," he informed her. "Ophelia is not meant to be betrayed as logical or anger. She is meant to betrayed as if madness is consuming her."_

_"If I was Ophelia, I would be angry, and my suicide would be out of spite not depression," she told her. _

_"In that way, I imagine you would be likened to Ophelia. Your anger and rebellion stems out of problems at home, and it drives you something that one could liken to madness."_

_"How do you know that?" she frowned staring at him as he took a drag. _

_"In your dorm," he told her, "there's a picture that you purposely placed face down. You don't want to look at it because it upsets you. Anger toward someone is rather good motivator for rebellion and madness."_

_"So you can tell anyone about anything just by observing?" she muttered remembering what people around the school had told her about Sherlock Holmes when she had inquired about him. "It's an interesting trick."_

_"It's not a trick," he told her with a sigh. "It's a science." He took another drag._

_"So that's why they call you a freak," she said tilting her head at him. She could feel the sting of loneliness resonating through him as she mentioned freak. She tried to backtrack. "I don't think you are," she replied quickly. "I think it's brilliant," she smirked, "sexy even. Intelligence is the new sexy, you know? You shouldn't care what everyone around here thinks."_

_"I don't," he tried to tell her, but she shook her head. She knew better. It stung him, but he insisted that emotions would just hold him back, so he denied it._

_"You're intelligent enough where you could do anything with that science of yours. Not everyone could say that." She laughed taking one last drag on her cigarette. "Hell, you could make up a job!" she joked stomping the cigarette on the ground. "You could be a… a… advising detective," she laughed thinking of the first thing coming to her head. "Tell Scotland Yard who did what just by looking at someone." She untied her blazer before pulling it on her. "I better get going. I'll see you in the front row tomorrow I assume, Mr. Holmes," she smiled before leaving him to finish his cigarette._

_"I'll see you on stage, Ginny," he muttered even though she was already gone._

* * *

"It can't be," he muttered staring at the screen with her image as she told the defense why Yates couldn't possibly be. "That's impossible!" She wasn't supposed to be in London. She wasn't supposed to be a psychiatrist, the very one that was putting doubts into people's minds about him. He wouldn't even be surprised if she had died from an overdose years ago.

"What's impossible?" John asked him watching Sherlock. His eyes were locked onto the screen as Doctor Lorraine insulted Sherlock for missing the obvious. He twitched slightly.

"Get your coat," he told him grabbing his coat and slipping it on followed by his scarf.

"Where are we going?" John asked him putting his coat on.  
"Saint Bart's," Sherlock informed him already half way out of the door.

* * *

A/N: Updated every other day temporarily. The above interaction between Sherlock and Jen was not the first meeting. We'll get to that much later. Next chapter is a meeting between Jen and Sherlock. Hooray! That's the fun part. This was just a brief set up.


	3. Time Turned Them Against Each Other

Jen bounced a tennis ball off her wall thinking. She was currently talking to one of her clients over speakerphone as he wasn't one to leave his house for anything, and she wasn't about to push that. She was a psychiatrist not a tormentor though the two often went hand in hand.

"Yes, but I bet you I could beat you in a game of poker. I have a great poker face," she laughed. The door slammed open making her look up with a frown. She was not to be interrupted when she was with a client, and her secretary knew that. Sherlock and John walked in followed by said secretary looking absolutely frantic and slightly horrified at their nerve.

"I'm sorry, Jen. They just pushed past me," she told her looking like she was going to pull out her blonde hair, which obviously needed a new dye job, with her poorly manicured nails. Jen frowned. It was unlike Jamie to stop caring about her appearance. When did that happen? Her concerns for the two men barging into her office was swept under the rug as concern for secretary and her state dominated her feelings.

"Jamie, I'm giving you a raise," she told her ignoring the new people in her office and focusing on her rather reliable secretary.

"What?" Jamie asked surprised. Jen mulled this over in her head. She tried to recall how much she even paid the woman at the same time she did her best to block out the confusion coming from Jamie and one of her new visitors as the other visitor gave her flat emotions making her even more confused.

"How much do I pay you? I don't remember. 30 quid per hour?" she asked the confusion in turn making her confused and slightly disoriented.

"25," Jamie corrected her, "and it's very respectable, mum."

"Right. I'm doubling your salary," she told her.

"D-doubling."

"I have too much money, and judging from the state of your hair and nails, I'd say something is draining your funds. You need the raise."

"I just had a baby, remember?" Jamie told her.

"No," Jen told her.

"You were at the baby shower," Jamie muttered a reminder. Jen blinked a few times.

"Jen?" a voice on her speaker asked getting her attention.

"Oh, sorry Marcus. We're done for the day anyway. I have to go. I'll talk to you Friday. Have a good day."

"You too," he replied before Jen hit a button on the phone.

"It's alright, Jamie," she said with a wave of her hand.

"Doubling is an awful lot. Are-"

"Are we still talking about your raise?" Jen with tilting her head while her eyebrows knitted together. "No, no. I was talking about the two new arrivals. I have a bit of time for them, so don't worry about it. I have five minutes before my next appoint, and it's just Carrie," she told her. "When she gets here, just let her in, and the raise will be on your next check. Don't bother arguing when you're secretly pleased." Jamie was silent as she seemed ready to argue to at least seem modest but instead gave a curt nod.

"Yes, Jen," Jamie said leaving her with John and Sherlock.

"Can I help you?" she asked not recognizing either of them. It had, after all, been many years since she had seen Sherlock Holmes. The last time she saw him, he had been only an inch or so taller than her, but she was so small that he was considered scrawny to everyone- granted, he was scrawny.

"Why would you even think that Mr. Yates is innocent, Ginny?" Sherlock asked her slamming his hands on her desk and giving her a rather challenging look. She blinked a few times before frowning and searching his eyes. Oh, it's been many years since she's seen that unique color that words couldn't do justice to.

"Sherlock Holmes, how long has it been?" she asked him absently though she knew how long it had been down to the day. Of course, it was him. She had insulted him on the stand, and he just couldn't take that. He couldn't take that he was proven wrong. Why could he just save her the trouble? She would rather not deal with him.

"Not long enough," he told her. He looked her up and down, and if she didn't know him, she would have thought he was checking her out, but no, he was trying to deduce her.

"Save it, tall, dark, and sociopathic," she said dryly letting her bitterness get the best of her. "You and I both know that anything you deduce about me are things that I want you to. It's part of my… let's call it charm?"

"You two know each other?" John asked looking between the two of them.

"Not really," Jen told him rolling her eyes. "I'm sorry who are you?"

"Oh, sorry, Doctor John Watson," he said holding out his hand. He didn't know why, but he felt he better tell her he was a doctor. She was a woman, whose respect had to be earned, and he could tell that instantly.

"Doctor Ginevra Lorraine, but everyone calls me Jen," she smiled shaking his hand. "It's a pleasure, Doctor."

"Pleasure is mine," he told her. "You can call me John if you like."

"And Jen is fine with me. So you're a… friend of Sherlock's?"

"Flat mate," he told her.

"Oh," Jen said in the sort of way that made John sigh.

"Just friends. I'm not… gay… not that there's problem with gay people, but I'm not. Definitely not," he told her slightly embarrassed at his rant, but Jen's good humored laughed cheered him up.

"So you must work with him on the cases then as a medical expertise?"

"I wouldn't say I'm an expert," he said though his pride was glowing from the compliment, "but yes. I help on the cases, and then I blog about it."

"Oh? A blog? I'll have to take a look at it when I get home," she commented

"So how do you two know each other?" John asked slightly confused.

"We were classmates," Sherlock told him. Jen's eyes met his again. Her charming smile fell. Sherlock and Jen stared at each other as if they were both trying to get something out of each other. They both seemed to be trying to figure something out, though what, could not be said. He tried to pick things he missed, and she was hiding a hundred different things, and the awful thing was: she was good at it. He was having a hard time getting any proper information from her. She was trying to gauge his emotions and reactions, but all she got was static.

"So you two were classmates?" John asked breaking the silence as they practically were sending each other death threats. Sherlock thought he owed her a debt, and that made him bitter. He didn't owe people; that's not how it worked. Meanwhile, Jen thought that _she _was the one who owed him a debt making her rather irritated as like Holmes she didn't want to owe anyone. People owed her not the other way around. "What was Sherlock like when he was younger?" Jen shrugged finally leaving the icy psychiatrist behind.

"We weren't friends or enemies just classmates," she told him. "He was a bit of a loner and a know-all. I was um… you know those kids that parents always warn their children not to go near?"

"Yeah."

"I was the leader of those kids," she laughed. "I was…" She shook her head. "I was... out-of-control."

"And was Sherlock part of that crowd? Wouldn't really surprise me to tell the truth," John joked. Jen laughed.

"No," she said shaking her head. "Sherlock and I… well, we only really had two interactions?"

"Three," he corrected her now sitting in front of her. She frowned at him. He looked at her as if challenging her to say something, but she just shrugged it off. She wasn't in the mood to play his games.

"Oh, right," she said with a nod. "Three."

"Really?" John asked surprised. They just seemed to really dislike each other in a way that only people who knew each other intimately could.

"Why is your hair that way?" he asked her staring at the frantic brown curls. Her appearance was vastly altered, and he was barely able to tell she was the same girl.

"It's what my hair naturally looks like," she informed him. "I stopped using dyes and relaxers and let it grow naturally. Does it matter?"

"Why couldn't I tell?" he asked her.

"Relaxers don't leave a tell," she told him, "and you never gave much thought to the actually color of my hair."

"You removed your piercing and tattoos," he also noted, "and you've stopped wearing makeup."

"I wear very minimal makeup, and I still have a few tattoos and piercings, but none I would care to show you," she informed him. "Did you not recognize me?" she asked him slightly smug. He refused to answer. "That's fine. I didn't recognize you. You've certainly grown out of that small squeaky toy I recall." His hand twitched ever so slightly, and she could feel how irritated he was becoming. He switched topics.

"I wasn't aware Doctor Jacob Facet was a woman," Sherlock suddenly informed her finding himself to dislike this woman more and more. It really hadn't been long enough. It wasn't that he disliked her in school. No, in fact, he found her a fascination while in school, but the years thinking on his debt had made him dislike her. Her know-all attitude and own hostility toward him made him dislike her even more.

"No, not many people do. Most think he's-"

"A professor of elderly age who's retired in the country," he finished, "or so the biography in the back of the book claims."

"It's easier to be respected as an older man than a young woman," she informed him. "Besides, like I need a bunch of amateur psychologists trying to inform me that my diagnostic skills are lacking when they can't tell the difference between a sociopath and a psychopath. You read my books, Mr. Holmes?"

"Don't call me, Mr. Holmes," he said slightly irked. Hearing Mr. Holmes only reminded him of his annoying brother, and after everything that happened between the two, he thought it be more appropriate that she call him Sherlock, "and yes Ginny, I do. Your analysis of psychiatry is remarkable though you make several minor errors."

"Says the sociopathic detective. I have no interest in your opinion, Mr. Holmes," she said emphasizing his name. "You were wrong. Take that blow to your pride and learn humility, because you clearly need it," she scoffed.

"Did you consider that you are the one wrong, Ginny, and not me?" Sherlock asked her. "Your deductions were wrong. Mr. Yates is not a pacifist, and he-"

"Mr. Holmes, whether or not Mr. Yates is a pacifist or was at all as I may have described to the jury doesn't matter. None of it matters! However, I do know he's not capable of it. I know a psychopath when I see one. Hell, I'm looking at one right now," she replied with a pleasant smile. "Mr. Yates isn't a psychopath any more than you are idiot. Look at the facts again," she said. "You're missing the obvious. You'll have another killing in a few days." The door opened and Carrie entered Jen's office.

"Am I interrupting?" Carrie asked standing at the door.

"No, come in, but leave your coat on," she told her standing and straightening her skirt.

"Where are we going?" Carrie asked her as Jen took her red coat from the back of her chair and began pulling it on.

"For a walk and to wherever strikes my fancy," she told Carrie.

"So no morgue today?" Carrie joked grinning.

"Molly's ready to murder me," Jen admitted with a laugh pulling on a pair of black gloves. "I thought we would save her another headache." She turned to the two men. "Well, it's been a real pleasure," she said sarcastically rolling her eyes. "I'll not see you around. I'm busy. Don't come by again." Jen put her arm around Carrie and led her from the office leaving Sherlock in a dark mood, and John was left to deal with him.

* * *

A/N: Special thanks to my first reviewer Doodle0505! Thanks! And we get an initial interaction. In a few chapters, it'll be talked about why she gets emotional from other people's emotions. Hope you enjoyed! Until Friday, Loves!


	4. Second Time Around

The first meeting with Sherlock and John didn't end well, and the second time running into Sherlock was just as bad. It was a few days after he had barged into her office, and he was still working on the London Maniac case. Jen, meanwhile, laid exhausted in a chair with her feet on the countertop. Her head was tilted back with a thick psychologist book resting over her eyes. She wasn't sleeping. She was just relaxing. Sherlock Holmes didn't seem to notice her nor care that Molly had another person in her lab. He sat down at the bench to start his work. It turned out Doctor Lorraine was correct. There had been another killing, and this time it was while Yates was under surveillance. He wasn't convicted thanks to Jen's brilliant testimony, but he had continued being questioned and during questioning another murder happened.

"Why is Doctor Jensen in your lab?" Sherlock asked her finding the woman to be a distraction. He had noted the name tag on her jacket not recognizing her to be Jen with the book over her head and any other revealing features covered by clothing or hidden behind the counter.

"Oh well, Her names not... isnt exactly... she's not Doctor Jensen," Molly told him, "and she's sleeping."

"I can see that," he replied irked that she was telling him the obvious. "Why is she sleeping in your lab?"

"I can't... She's just... She usually stays the night in her office, but since Dr. Surah knows she does, she's need to sleep somewhere else." Her answer didn't help.

"Why does she sleep in her office? No flat?" Sherlock asked. "No, she obviously has a flat. She's a workaholic then. She prefers staying in her office even at night."

"Oh, no, I mean... not exactly... a workaholic. Sometimes I think she barely works, but she finds her flat boring. She usually stays at the hospital and talks with the patients, spend her night watching the streets, writing, or conducting experiments on the brains of the body's in the morgue. She had full access to the morgue due to her status in the hospital. She's head of her division."

"Then what's her name?" Sherlock asked Molly. She was about to answer, but the door slammed open.

"Doctor Lorraine!" the man snapped. He was perhaps a decade older than Molly and was graying prematurely. He was thin. The woman bolted up, and her book collided with floor. She frantically looked around confused.

"Oh, it's you," she said dully. "What do you want, Liam?" She collapsed back in her chair dully.

"Dr. Surah is looking everywhere for you. Is this where you've been the last three days?"

"No! Of course not! What do you take me for?! I slept a good majority of the time among the bodies in the morgue," she smirked when he looked at her slightly mortified. Ah, Liam Felis. He was a chink him her neck since she started working at Bart's. She presumed it to be jealousy. He was a fellow psychiatrist there and was hoping for the promotion she had received. Not that she could blame him. She was there only a year when she got the promotion when he had been there for nearly ten.

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, grow up, Liam. They're just dead bodies."

"What the hell is your problem?" he growled. It didn't help that he thought her to be mentally unstable. Granted, he was close enough to the truth.

"Want me to make a list? It'll be a bit long, and I'm not sure your minuscule mind could quite understand everything I write," she told him with a pleasant smile. If he wanted to start a war with her, he would lose.

"Dr. Lorraine, your insolence-"

"Oh, just because you're Dr. Surah's little pet doesn't mean you can order me around, Liam," she replied leaning back in her chair. "Go on. Run off. I'm busy."

"You're a psychopath," he muttered turning to go back to the doors, but Jen wouldn't have that. She pushed herself off of the counter, and the chair rolled to the door faster than Liam could walk to it. She put a leg out in front of him.

"Liam, Liam, Liam. Of course I'm a psychopath! It's just part of my… let's call it charm, shall we, and one day, I may just turn that psychopathic rage into murdering people, and I give you my solemn word you'll be the first to go. I promise to make it as memorable as possible."

"You're sick," he sneered shoving her leg out of the way as he left.

"I've been called worse!" she called after him sticking her head out the door to watch him walk to the lift. "Have a good day, Liam! Remember your death just depends on my ever unpredictable mood!"

"You really shouldn't do that," Molly told her in a quiet voice making Jen sigh.

"Molly, Molly, Molly," she said kicking off the wall and rolling to Molly Hooper. "What is he going to do get me fired? I've done worse. Plus, Dr. Surah puts up with me, because I'm the best and brightest in my field."

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. She leaned back in her chair, so that Molly was no longer in the way of her view.

"Didn't see you there tall, dark, and crazy," she remarked before she looked between him and Molly with a frown. Dear lord, this was the detective she's constantly raving about. "Oh, Molly, no. Just no." She could feel Molly's embarrassment wash over her, so she immediately changed topics. She felt she needed to dash in some condescending remarks to Sherlock. "How's that murder investigation go? Funny thing. Read in the newspaper that a brilliant psychiatrist predicted that Yates wasn't the murderer. Interesting how the world's only consulting detective was wrong." He looked to her with his jaw clenched.

"It was luck that you were right," he informed.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes," she teased. "You've read my books. You know its skill and anything but luck. Meanwhile, after you so beautifully came slamming through my office, I did my own research on you. Interesting blog you have there. Analysis of 240 types of tobacco ash. Fascinating. Really, and that was sarcasm. I assume you don't get that technique as it is part of social norms."

"Jen, don't you have a meeting with a client in ten minutes?" Molly asked her. Jen sighed and gave her a look that clearly said she was ruining her fun.

"Fun crusher," she muttered standing. She grabbed her book off the ground before she started walking to the door.

"Have a good morning. I'll see you at the café, Molly."

"Bye, Jen," Molly replied softly. "She's not... it's not that she's...," Molly muttered to Sherlock. "She has both a superiority complex and inferiority complex, or so she says. Her insulting you, Sherlock, just means that her superiority feels threatened. She's not as bad as you think. She can be the kindest of people when you really need her to be." Molly's phone vibrated.

**Be a dear, Molly, and stop talking about me. –Jen**

"That's her," Sherlock accused taking Molly's phone from her hand. Molly gave him a particular look that she often gave him when he did something that was obviously against social norms.

**I can talk about you if I see fit to. –SH**

Jen frowned as she looked at the text. She looked between her client, Michael Tell, and her phone. Her client had nothing wrong with him. He was a young man who had succeeded in becoming a CEO of a multimillion dollar company. Jen had met him in uni, and he had struck a friendship with her finding her advice invaluable. He now often paid for her to simply talk to him.

"Who's that?"

"A genius with a superiority complex," she replied typing a response.

**Do go back to your work, Mr. Holmes. Lord knows you need all your concentration to catch the London Maniac since you failed so miserably last time. –Jen**

The howl of a wolf came from Sherlock Holmes's pocket. He frowned before he took it out from his pocket and looked down to see Jen's text.

"When did she-"

**You are surprisingly easy to pickpocket, Mr. Holmes. I put my number in your phone, so when you need my help, and you will, you'll know how to contact me. –Jen **

"So you're just enjoying messing with his head?" Michael asked her.

"He's a sociopath bordering on psychopath," she told him. "Messing with his head is the greatest form of entertainment I've had in years." A grin slowly formed on her face and Michael shook his head.

"One day, you're going to get into trouble, Jen," he tisked. She just shrugged as her phone went off.

**I won't be needing your help, Doctor Lorraine. –SH**

**Says the man who can't catch the London Maniac. I would think it's obviously. –Jen**

**If you know who the killer is, why not tell Scotland Yard? –SH**

**It's too easy. Look at the facts again, Mr. Holmes. You're missing the obvious. –Jen**

Sherlock practically threw his phone down when he received her text. She knew who the killer was, but she relentlessly insisted that he had to figure it out. Why? What was her motive? She had to have a motive, didn't she?

* * *

A/N: It occurs to me I mention this takes place between 2 and 3 of season 1. I lied. 1 and 2 of season 1. Something slipped my mind. Review please! And thanks to my reviewer Doodle0505. =) Hope you enjoyed. I'm posting another chapter later today as this was rather small compared to usual and the next one is even smaller.


	5. Ginevra Lorraine Owes Sherlock Holmes

It bothered John how they interacted as if they knew each other so well. It wasn't that he was jealous, it was as if he was being left in the dark when it came to Ginevra Lorraine. Sherlock wasn't telling John something. There had to be something more than just classmates between them.

"So how do you know her really?" John asked as Sherlock sat down at his desk to look at his mass of papers related to the London Maniac. If Yates wasn't the killer, he would find the real one. He wouldn't let Jen be better at his job than him.

"I told you she was a classmate," Sherlock replied not looking up.

"Just a classmate then?" he asked, and Sherlock was silent as if telling John that answering that question was a waste of his breath. "Those three times you met must really have had an impression on both of you, then," he commented entering the kitchen to put to look for something to eat. He was tired from being up all night. Hopefully a cup of tea would help.

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

"Sherlock," John sighed, "you practically ran to the door when you learned her name was Ginevra Lorraine."

"I was surprised it all," he remarked. "Ginny wasn't the sort I would expect to become a psychiatrist."

"Ginny?" John questioned.

"Her nickname during school," Sherlock remarked as if that wasn't remotely important.

"What did you expect her to become?" John asked him reappearing in the room.

"An artist of some sort," he replied quite quickly as if he had given it much thought when he was younger.

"See this is what I mean," John pointed out. "You've obviously given thought to that."

"Hardly," Sherlock told him. "Now, stop talking. I'm thinking and you're being distracting." John sighed and turned back to the television. He wondered if he would ever figure out what happened between him and Jen.

* * *

Jen stumbled through her door exhausted with a headache that convinced her that a train had smashed into her and not the American she had fought in the ring. Her flat was neat in a chaotic way with papers scattered across her coffee table and side table. She had books piled neatly on an arm chair on one side as well as on top of a piano that was facing a window that looked out into London. It shared the window with an easel that had an unfinished painting on it. There were several sketches paintings and music sheets lying about, but again, they were in neat piles as if it made her apartment that much clear. She had a telly that sat facing her leather couch.

She sighed and put her keys on a hook followed by her bag. She veered off to the left into a small hallway that had three doors. Forward was a set of stairs that led to her flat mate's room. Her flat mate happened to be the fight ring owner, Damon. Some people thought it was odd she lived with a man her own age and wasn't sleeping with him. She usually tells them to piss off. To the left was a bathroom and the last her bedroom on the right.

She veered to the right and collapsed into an oversized memory foam king-sized mattress clad in a deep red comforter. If her sitting room was messy, then her bedroom was a disaster. She had crumbled up papers and empty pack of her favorite cigarettes littering her floor. Clothes were scattered everywhere and sat among books, trash, and files. Her book shelf was in sad repair and was falling apart under her numerous books. Her lamp on her bed stand had obviously been smashed and glued together half a dozen times and the alarm clock was no longer working. She simply had no effort to clean her room. She rather liked it messy.

Her head was pounding, and she had one thought that racked her brain and made her head hurt even more, so she said it aloud instead.

"I, Ginevra Lorraine, still owe Sherlock Holmes my life," she muttered. "I, Ginevra Lorraine, still owe Sherlock Holmes my life. I, Ginevra Lorraine…" She repeated phrase over and over until her eyelids fell and she fell asleep.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to a new reviewer: SemiraBlake! I appreciate it! Hope you enjoyed! See you Sunday! Review please!


	6. Empathy and Instinct

"Noah Hall," he said slamming the doors open to her office. She was with a patient, and quite frankly, it wasn't a good time. The man was paranoid with a series of phobias, and anything could set him off including an arrogant consulting detective that has too many issues to understand boundaries.

"Who's he?" her client asked her looking at Sherlock confused.

"A man, who desperately needs therapy, Mathew," she replied rolling her eyes as Sherlock quickly entered her office. He pushed Mathew's legs off the couch sitting down and looking at her not giving a care in the wolrd that she was with a patient.

"How did you know? You're a psychiatrist not a detective."

"Mr. Holmes, now is not the time," she scowled. "I am with a patient. I have no time for you." He looked over the patient carefully but quickly. No doubt he knew right away what was wrong with him by a glance.

"Give him something for his anxiety and call it a day," he told her quickly. "How did you know? I have to know. How?" She sighed and stood grabbing his arm in an iron grip. She tugged him to the door and threw him out of her office stepping out momentarily.

"I do not have time for your sociopathic behavior. I have clients and a job. You want to talk about it then you have to wait until I'm done here, do you understand that?" She asked, but he didn't have time to answer before she answered for him. "Good. Then I'll be with my client. If you really want to talk, then wait until I'm done at work." She went back into her office slamming the door behind her. Done after work! Ha! She usually, if she did, left her office around three in the morning. Good luck with that.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes didn't barge into her office again that day much to her satisfaction. She found herself swamped in backup paper work that she had put off for days. Her publisher was calling demanding the book she promised ages ago, but she still hadn't delivered it. She had several clients, most were beyond boring, and was now screening calls from everyone as she really didn't feel like dealing with any more people for that day.

By the time she had finished her work, she decided she needed to get away from the office and spend a night at home. She walked out of her office into the mostly empty halls of Saint Bart's at three in the morning as she had predicted. It was rather dreary this late at night, and it was eerily quiet. There was no one to observe, and Jen was just left to her thoughts.

The night air was chillier than expected causing her to pull her red coat tighter around her to keep the cold out.

"How?" a voice called form against the wall. She jumped and her books and papers went everywhere. She looked at Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall to Saint Bart's. She twitched in annoyance.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" she asked quickly gathering her papers and book before she stood straight.

"I was waiting for you, but the staff shut me out at midnight forcing me to wait out here for you," he informed. "I thought it would be obvious."

"Mr. Holmes, for the love of God, go home. It's three in the morning. Normal people don't wait for a single answer for ten hours," she told him.

"I'm not normal. Normal is boring," he informed her as he matched her stride as she started to walk away. "And neither are you. Now tell me. How? How did you know it was Noah Hall?"

"Go home, Mr. Holmes. It's three in the morning," she repeated.

"No. Not until I get my answer," he replied. She rolled her eyes.

"Fine," she replied, "if you want to be a child and demand answers, I'll tell you how if only to get you as far away from me as physically possible. First things first, tell me what made you realize it was Noah Hall."

"You said someone unstable, someone who would just suddenly attack. Violent outbursts like that must have had history. I used a number of sources to find my killer. I knew he was approximately 6'4. I knew he weighed approximately 215 lbs. I knew he was of German descent, and that he had been married at some point possibly with a daughter. I then recognized the dirt on a victim's sleeve as coming from only one place in the country. It all lead me to Noah Hall. Now tell me how you beat me to the answer? How did you really know Mr. Yates was innocent?"

"See that woman on the corner there?" she asked him nodding to a woman sitting on a bench. "Tell me about her."

"I hardly understand how this is relevant."

"Just answer me, you dolt, and stop telling me something isn't relevant if you don't know where I'm going with this." He scowled at her before he spoke.

"Shadow's under her eyes," he started a little too eager to impress. Perhaps he was trying to prove to her that he wasn't a dolt. "She hasn't had a good night's sleep in four days. She's right handed and works as a waitress judging from her clothes. However, judging from her hands she also plays piano. Beginner's sheets in her bag. She teaches piano on the side. She has a paint stain on her blouse. Could be a painter, but no, that's children's paint. She has a child at home. No ring. Single mother. Old scars. Not self-inflicted. No, she came out of a bad relationship. Abuse. She was self-taught at piano and never completed any formal education, but she's clever enough. She reads and tries to set an example for her daughter."

"Daughter?"

"Pink ribbon on her bag. Obviously from a little girl. She's recently stopped smoking as she has no money for the habit. She's barely making her rent. They're about to be kicked out, but she's just managing to scrap by. Her names Joan Phillips. She's 5'5 and 133lbs. She's a mix of French, African, and German. Anything else?"

"No," Jen replied. "That was a bit remarkable."

"Really?" he asked surprised.

"Yes. I wouldn't be able to deduce all that by looking at her. Why? What do most people think?"

"Most tell me to piss off," he told her.

"No, it's just a bit remarkable, but don't let it go to your head. You missed what I can see."

"Like what?" he asked her irritated. Jen barely glanced at the woman.

"She's suffering from severe panic attacks and depression. She worries too much for her child, I assume, so much so it's been affecting her sleep. 369-11."

"369-11?" he asked.

"The chances she'll snap and kill her child before shooting herself in the head," she informed him.

"For or against?"

"Against," she told him.

"How could you tell? She shows no outward signs," he informed her.

"No, but it's there," she muttered staring at the woman before she shook her head and turned the corner with Sherlock following at her side. "Do you know what Borderline Personality Disorder is?"

"It's a cluster B personality disorder whose essential features are a pattern of marked impulsivity and instability of affects, interpersonal relationships, and self-image," he told her.

"Nearly directly from the textbook," she remarked amused. "Did you know I have it?"

"It was obvious," he informed her, and although she didn't want him to know she had Borderline Personality Disorder, she suspected he knew against her will.

"One of the possible symptoms of BPD is what's known as hyper-empathy. Basically, I can read a person's emotions better than you can read a book. I can feel what other people feel, and using what I know about emotions and about what I see I can tell you what is wrong with a person. I can tell you the chances of the murdering someone and the chances of them killing themselves. Hell, I once accurately predicted the means as well as the time and death down to the minute of a government official. All by a single glance."

"Show me," he demanded.

"Did I not just show you?" she asked with a frown gesturing behind her to the woman on the bench.

"Show me how," he told her.

"You're asking me to teach you?"

"It's relevant to my work," he informed her. "It will make me better at finding the killers."

"It can't be taught, Mr. Holmes," she told him with a sigh. "You either understand emotions or you don't, and you understand them in a very chemical way. I understand in a physical way. When someone is upset, I get upset. When someone is happy, I'm happy. When someone is angry, I'm angry. You can't learn it. It just is. Everything I do, everything I know is instinctual. It has nothing to do with intelligence or science." She stepped up the steps to a small apartment building to the door.

"You said I was difficult though. You couldn't read me," he told her.

"No," she replied with a frown. "I couldn't. It's like I can see people's emotions and problems on a telly, but when I look at you, all I see is static jumbled with a few choice words that mean nearly nothing to me." She took her keys from her coat jacket and unlocked the door. "Go home, Mr. Holmes. It's nearly four in the morning, and I need to rest." She entered the building but quickly turned around to watch him slowly walk down the steps. "Mr. Holmes?" He turned to look at her. He had a smug smile on his face like she knew he would. He was satisfied to know she couldn't deduce him, and he kept the knowledge that he couldn't deduce her to himself. In her eyes, he won, and he was happy, and she enjoyed crushing his pride a little too much. "I am well aware that you can't deduce me either, and I know that it frustrates you far too much, so try to wipe that smug look off your face, will you? We are both at a stalemate. You haven't won." His smile fell, and he scowled at the girl's back as she disappeared into the apartment complex. Bloody woman.

* * *

A/N: I wanted to make it clear that her ability to find the killer had nothing to do with intelligence. She's clever, very clever, but she's still nowhere near the intelligence level of Sherlock. She uses mostly instinct and experience to get to her answers.

Thanks to new reviewers TragicBlossoms and a guest: Katelynne. To Katelynne: Sorry, yeah, that was a mistake while I was typing. I fixed it though. Ginevra.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed. I will be updating again tomorrow since this was decently short, and the next one is short as well, so I'll see you then! Review please!


	7. Coffee

"Sorry I'm late." Jen said hurrying in the cafe around one in the afternoon. Molly was already sitting and gave her a particular look that Molly would not be given to anyone else. She was late again, and Molly was getting tired of her obviously lying about what she was doing and where she's been. Jen slumped down in the café chair. There were already two coffees on the table. They had both cooled to room temperature.

"It's alright… you look tired," Molly said noting the disheveled look she currently had despite having had had work that morning. Molly briefly wondered what she did with her night but did not push it. "I mean... more than usual."

"Yeah, well, I had a lot of work to get done last night," she replied taking a sip of her coffee. Of course it was true, but not long after Sherlock had left her to her apartment she grew anxious and headed to the fight ring yet again. She had sent her mangled opponent to a hospital while she herself had broken her left wrist and was now trying to hide it. It was a problem. "Then I had to deal with your bloody boyfriend annoying the hell out of me."

"Boyfriend?" Molly frowned.

"Holmes," she told her with a sigh. "He waited for me outside of Saint Bart's for ten hours just to ask me how I knew who the London Maniac was."

"You knew who the London Maniac was?" Molly asked surprised.

"Yes, but I knew Mr. Holmes would figure it out so I didn't divulge any information," she informed Molly taking sip. "I have no interest in solving cases for Scotland Yard anymore. Besides, I wouldn't be able to solve the cases as well as Holmes… don't tell him I said that. He needs to learn humility." Molly nodded slowly.

"Um… I've got a date," Molly told her quietly.

"What?" Jen asked suddenly disarmed. "Oh, that's brilliant. Who is he? How did you meet him?"

"Oh… well his name is Jim. He's from the IT department, and he contacted me on my blog. He said he noticed me at work and asked me out for coffee."

"That's great, Molly. You shouldn't get hung up so much over Sherlock. Find a good bloke. It's what you need right now," Jen said with a nod sipping her coffee. "Though my feminist half is strongly denying that." Molly laughed when she seemed confused own logic. "So how much do you know about Sherlock Holmes?"

"Oh, no," Molly said slightly afraid and worried, "I know that look, Jen. Don't."

"Don't what?" she asked innocently.

"Do that thing," Molly complained. "Whenever you find someone even remotely interesting, you make it your goal to analyze them and break them. Anyone you find interesting ends up in a mental institution, committing suicide, or getting hurt mentally beyond repair. Please. Don't. Not Sherlock."

"He's damaged enough were anything I say won't hurt him anyway," Jen said innocently.

"Jen, promise me," Molly told her seriously.

"Words are just empty anyway," she muttered. "I wouldn't mean it. He's far too much of a challenged to not break."

"Jen," she warned.

"Fine, fine. I won't touch his psyche unless he provokes me," she promised. Though whether she meant it depended on her mood, and her mood was unpredictable at best.

"What falls under provocation?" Molly asked her voice falling flat. Jen smirked into her coffee and shrugged casually. Molly sighed. "I suppose that's as good as I'll get out of you."

"It is," Jen replied with a smile.

"I better get going," Molly smiled standing before she left Jen with her coffee. She let her attention drift to the overwhelming madness that had been attempting to scrap it's way back up since Holmes had reappeared in her life. Was it wrong that she was having vivid daydreams of drowning him in a vat of the most destructive acid she could find? Of course it was. Would she stop? No. Did she enjoy the very idea of him squirming in her grips as he gasped out his last breath? Oh yes. Did she knew how very demented that was? Naturally. Did she accept it? She accepted it enough for it to not bother her on a daily basis, but denied it enough not to act on the urge that surge through her. Instead, she let go of that anger in the fight ring. It was her meditation. If she didn't, Holmes would have been on the ground dead during their first reintroduction.

* * *

When Jen did in fact finish her coffee, she left the café and wasn't paying attention to what she was doing. She had papers in one hand and a coffee in the other, and then she crashed straight into someone and both went flying.

"Well, fuck," she replied with a sigh looking down at the papers now stained brown.

"I'm so sorry. Are you- Doctor Lorraine?" She looked up to John Watson.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, hello. How are you?"

"I'm so sorry," he said now trying to collect her soaking papers. He ignored her question of how he was as he was a little too concerned he may have ruined the woman's paper.

"No," she muttered leaning down looking to scavenge only mildly damaged papers. "It's my fault. I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing. I was trying to read my papers."

"Is this Chinese?" he asked her looking at a few papers.

"Oh, uh, yeah," she told him. "I speak over a dozen languages."

"Is there anything you can't do?" he joked handing her some papers.

"Oh, I'm terrible with technology," she told him with a laugh. "It's my weakness. So what are you doing around here? Bit far from Baker's Street, isn't it?" She stood now having collected the papers that could still be salvaged. John stood as well. He was taller than her by a good deal, he noted. She was probably just over five foot. She always seemed so tall when she spoke. Perhaps it was the confidence and power in the way she spoke, he mused.

"Sherlock's working a case. He's at Saint Bart's now. He's been driving me crazy, so I decided to take a walk."

"Sociopaths are rather exhausting," she told him with a weary smile; she was tired, "and I know Sherlock Holmes can be rather… overwhelming."

"That's an understatement," John told her sounding like he was at his wit's end. She couldn't help but feel bad for him. "Uh… listen, I feel really bad for your coffee. Let me buy you a new one," he offered. "We could talk or something... to be honest, I think it was rather impressive the way you proved Sherlock wrong." She laughed before she looked at the watch on her wrist. She didn't want to deal with anymore people. She wanted to sit in dark corner allowing herself to dwell over forbidden thoughts, but she had clients as well as apparently John Watson to attend to.

"It sounds like a good time, but I can't," she told him. "I'm running late. Walk with me." He did as she asked, and they both started walking to Saint Bart's.

"So if you can't grab a coffee with me today, perhaps another time?" he questioned rubbing his neck. He was nervous, and it was making her slightly skittish to her irritation.

"Are you asking me out on a date?" she asked confused. She'd been out of the dating scene far too long. If Damon was there, he would mercilessly make fun of her.

"If it's not too forward," he told her. She took a deep breath. She had long resigned herself to the fact that a normal relationship was out of the question. Not with the way she was. Not with her personality. Not with her instability. However, she figured perhaps she decided a day out with a nice guy even if it led nowhere, and John was obvious used to crazy by that point.

"Uh, no, not at all," she told him pausing at the doors of Saint Bart's. "We could take a whack at it." She took his hand and with a marker from her bag wrote a number on it. "I'm pretty busy during the afternoons and evenings, but the mornings are pretty open for whenever. Just let me know when." She entered Bart's to head back to work as John went on his way happy with the outcome of their conversation.

* * *

A/N: Ah, so we see a shade of darkness in her. Lovely. And a date with John? Huzzah! Updated my summary, and decided to update every day until Thursday. On Thursday, I intend to start a once a week schedule as Thursday will be my day off from school. See you tomorrow then! Review please!


	8. Sherlock Holmes Owes Ginevra Lorraine

**Coffee? Tomorrow? –John**

**Sure. How's ten for you? –Jen**

**Good. Have any place in mind? –John**

**There's a café a block from Bart's makes really good coffee. –Jen**

**I know it. I'll meet you there at ten then. –John**

**Sounds fun. What are you doing right now? –Jen**

"Who are you texting?" Damon asked her as he made her lunch. Both of them had a day off and was spending it today. She had her head on the table and wasn't moving much besides texting. She had just thrown a rather sizable temper tantrum successfully twisting her ankle, breaking two of her fingers, and shattering a rather pricey vase she had bought at an antique auction before Damon dragged her to the ground trying to calm her as he often did with days like this. Her flat mate had noticed a rather sharp increase of tantrums in the last week, and it was a bit unnerving.

"His name is John Watson. He's a doctor," and then she paused debating to tell him how she knew John. Damon knew her past with Sherlock, "and friend and colleague of Sherlock Holmes."

**Why? –John **A crash was heard, and she rose her head to look at Damon. The bowl he was using had clattered on the floor in surprise.

"The same Sherlock Holmes that you owe a life debt to?" Damon asked her. It sounded so cliche when he said it, but she nodded her head slowly and rubbed her eyes before texting John back.

**Curiosity. People fascinate me, and I am curious how you managed to live with Sherlock Holmes. –Jen**

"And you saw him recently?" Damon asked. She nodded miserably. "What did he say?"

"Nothing," she muttered. "He was just as surprised and angry to see me exactly how I felt. I'm not really sure what's going between his head. I never could tell. I think he was trying to focus on the case, but I could be wrong."

* * *

"Why are you texting _her_?" Sherlock asked John from his chair. He was fiddling with his bow, and John had noted he seemed a bit distracted. He had seemed slightly distracted for the last few days, and although Sherlock was always irritable when there was a lack of cases, he'd been nearly intolerable since... well, since he had run into Jen.

"I have a date with her tomorrow," John informed him sitting across from Sherlock as he texted in response.

**Sitting, texting you while Sherlock plays violin. He seems distracted. -John**

Sherlock slammed his bow down on the end table irked by this new piece of information. "No," he told John simply.

"No?" John asked giving a rather perplexed look to Sherlock. He had often objected to his dating, but never flat out told him no. "What do you mean no?"

"No, non, nein, nee, jo, la, hindi, pa. I know 73 ways to say no, John. Which one do you prefer?" Sherlock asked him in a sharp tone that was usually not implemented by Sherlock. Yes, he insulted people, but he generally didn't do it purposely and almost never to John. Sherlock turned to the window to play his violin as obnoxiously as he could manage making it clear to John that he found the idea of him dating Jen appalling.

"I understand that," John sighed. He was acting like a child again. "What I want to know is why you care?"

"You can date any woman in the whole of London. I don't care who you decide to copulate with but not her." John gave him a very exasperated look that clearly told him he wasn't understanding the situation.

"Is this jealousy?" John asked still incredibly confused knowing that would not be in his friends nature but searching for answers for his odd response.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said writing a few music notes on his sheet though he pressed far harder than he had to, and it for once didn't escape John's notice. "I do not want you dating her simply because she isn't the kind you would want to date, John," Sherlock told him, but John more heard along the lines of: don't date her. She's a distraction.

"And why is that? I thought you didn't know her," John replied.

**Why do you think he's distracted? –Jen**

"No," Sherlock told him harshly. His words were venomous and ice to the core. His unexplained hate for Jen was beyond any other animosity John had seen Sherlock show. "She said she doesn't know me. I know her. How could I not know her?"

**You. –John**

"How do you know her?" John asked him.

"Everyone knew Ginny in school," Sherlock told him twisting his bow. "She had a habit to draw attention to herself not to mention she stared in every production the school theatre put out. Her goal was simple: get expelled out as fast and efficiently as possible. She did this through a wide range of explicit activities ranging from dealing drugs to having sex sometimes for money with numerous students and professors. Her emotions were rapid, and none so intense as her anger causing intense fits leading to furniture broke, rooms torn apart, and students sent to the infirmary sometimes being so hurt they have to be sent to the hospital."

"That doesn't sound like Jen," John replied surprised. All John saw was a sane woman who happened to unnerve Sherlock. Was there maybe a reason for the edge he got when around her?

"She's found other outlets judging from the concussion on her head," Sherlock told him. Concussion? John questioned to himself, but realized if she did have one Sherlock would have noticed with no outward signs and not John. He would only be able to tell if she was showing immediate symptoms or was looking for such damage.

"What do you think she did?" John asked him as his phone went off.

**Me? What did I do? –Jen**

"She was in a fight. She used to be a heavy drinker. She was likely in a bar fight," Sherlock thought aloud. Though he was unsure if that was true, which irritated him to extent that could not be explained.

**I'm not entirely sure, but we're discussing you now. –John**

"So why the interest in her?" John asked. The entire scenario with Jen was rather odd, and one that for once, John wouldn't mind having Sherlock deducting abilities just to figure it out. Jen had claimed they weren't friends, and yet they both held a familiarity that was obviously more than just a passing knowledge of each other. Sherlock refused to speak of it, but he would try again.

"Interest?" Sherlock said feigning ignorance once again.

"You wouldn't notice any of these things if she didn't hold some sort of interest to you," John told him.

"I can read her but barely," Sherlock grinded out letting his violin and box drop as he gave up. "It's always been that way. When she acted on stage, I could only read the character she portrayed, never her, and the Ginny everyone that they knew was a character she acted out. The rebel she pretended to play wasn't her, and it intrigued me. How could it not intrigue me? She was a person so complex that not even I could read her properly. I could read little things, but nothing remotely important. I thought I could read her. I thought it was all obvious. She was a girl who vied for attention as she received none at home, so she indulged in reckless behavior, but then I met her and discovered I was completely wrong. I was wrong! Do you know how often that happens?"

"So that's the only reason she interested you is she was a riddle?"

"It is one of the primary reasons," he told John making John frown. So there was something more?

**I'm not sure whether I should feel self-conscious, or if I should find some pride in knowing I am a topic of conversation. –Jen**

"But there are other reasons," John noted.

"She can tell you if you want to know," Sherlock replied with a frown turning back to the window making it clear to John the conversation was over. He picked up his violin again and played. He was thinking about her with one thought: I, Sherlock Holmes, still owe that insolent woman, Ginevra Lorraine, my life.

* * *

A/N: So will we find out why Sherlock and Jen owe each other soon? No of course not! Much later. Thanks to reviewers sirolives and SemiraBlake. Hope you all enjoyed! I'll see you tomorrow! Review please!


	9. A Date With John

John had spent in the between time texting Jen much to Sherlock's annoyance, who still insisted she was not someone John should date, but John found her to be intelligent and witty. And he found her to be a much more level person than Sherlock had described, so needless to say, he was excited for his date the next morning.

He arrived at the café she had described to see her sitting at a table already drinking a coffee. She had papers as well as photographs scattered across the table. She was dressed for the work she would be doing after coffee in a high-waisted black pencil skirt and a tucked in blue silk button up matched with black pumps and light makeup and jewelry. Her red jacket was hanging off the chair.

"Morning," John said sitting down across from her and taking in her full appearance. He wondered what she looked like outside her work persona as he never saw her outside of her work clothes.

"Morning, John," she smiled clearing a few papers of the table.

"So what have you been working on?" he asked her looking at all her papers. She looked very busy, and he wondered how long she had been there if she was so busy that early in the morning.

"Oh," she scowled looking over the papers. She wasn't intending to work while on her coffee date with John, but she had an emergency. "Sorry about this. It'll just be a minute longer. An old friend called in a favor, one that I'm inclined not to decline."

"Doesn't sound like an old friend," John commented noting the distaste in her voice as he took a sip of coffee.

"It's sort of a long story," she admitted with sigh.

"What's the favor?" John asked.

"There's been a bombing at an embassy," she told him. "My job is to find the bomber using a variety of pictures of the embassy at the time before, after, and during the bombing."

"Can you do that?" he asked her.

"Oh, I used to do it all the time," she told him taking a magnifying glass and skimming a picture. "I don't anymore, but I owe this uh… friend a favor."

"That's pretty impressive," he remarked, and he meant it. He had seen Sherlock do something similar, but he imagined their techniques were vastly different. "Why do you work in a hospital if you're so good at what you do?"

"Well, I dabbled in police work then I was promoted to a government position," she told him with a sigh putting her magnifying glass down to look at him and focus on him, "but I don't know. I guess I sort of became scared."

"Scared?" John asked. He didn't imagine this woman could be scared of anything. She was the woman who told off Sherlock Holmes with as much casualty as asking someone the weather. What could she possibly be scared of?

"That I would become like them," she told him with a smile. She didn't elaborate who them was or what she would become like them, but he didn't push it. He didn't think she would elaborate and was inclined to think, perhaps due to Sherlock's nagging, that there were things she would keep to herself. "So I got a boring job at a hospital."

"You must have some interesting clients," he guessed. "I doubted I could do what you do. You dealt with people like Sherlock on a daily basis."

"Not like Sherlock," she said shaking her head. "He's... unique, interesting." She paused for a moment as her thoughts dwelled to Holmes, and briefly, John wondered if he should be jealous until her pencil in her hand broke in two from how hard she clenched it. She loosened her hand letting the pencil drop before she continued in an unnervingly even voice. He wondered what was going on in her head finding it was extremely difficult to tell. "Most of them aren't interesting. Oh the occasional client or two is, but then after the first few sessions with them, they become boring again."

"You sound like Sherlock," John said not able to resist the comparison. He was smiling because he couldn't help it. She smiled at him, though he wondered if it was out of amusement or restrained disdain, as she thought on that. It was a nauseating comparison to compare her with that man though as she thought on it her only reason to hate him was the debt she owed and a reminder that he could end her career and the life she built with the very events that had saved her in their school days. Before she owed a debt to him, she actually rather admired him and found him intriguing. So she thought on the comparison. They were both intelligent; both observant but different in their own way; their were both mad in some way or another. Perhaps they were a lot alike though that would also account for her hatred of him as she often hated herself more than any other person she met.

"Well, I suppose we are both intellectuals though I doubt he would admit that about me," she smiled not divulging just how alike she had considered they are. Though to be fair they were also completely different. He lacked emotion; she was rampant with hers. He used science and logic to observe; she used instinct. He didn't want help for his madness; she recognized that she needed help for hers. He chose a life of running on the streets; she chose office life. He found normality to be appalling; she desperately attempted to convince herself it's what she wanted. It was an interesting comparison between her and Sherlock Holmes.

"On the contrary, he's told me that he finds you to be one of the most brilliant minds he's ever met," John told her sipping his coffee.

"Oh really?" she asked in disbelief. She knew it wasn't something that he would say. He wasn't the kind for compliments, and that was actually something that didn't bother her. At least if he was complimenting someone, it was when he was trying to manipulate someone, and it was so obvious that you should know you were being played.

"Well, perhaps not in so many words," he told her making her laugh again.

"I suppose getting a compliment out of Mr. Holmes is a rare feat," she said smiling again. Her eyes glanced down at the pictures in front of her briefly. "Ah," she said picking up a pen a circling a man in the crowd. "I've found the bomber. I guess I needed a moment to relax and reboot my brain. Thank you, John," she smiled before she gently placed all the papers and photographs in a manila file and turning her attention to John as she intended to. She didn't know much about the doctor, but she was curious. "So what about you, John? Did you like your tour in Afghanistan?"

"How did you… don't tell me you deduce like Sherlock?" he questioned. She laughed and shook head.

"No, no. I'm a linguist as I have had experience in dozens of countries and picked language up along the way. I have a good ear for tone and pitch. I trained myself to hear what others can't. There are slight variations in a person's speech based on where they've traveled. I can tell from the way you talk you served in Afghanistan, and as to how I know you were an army man, well you would need to be more than a Doctor to survive Mr. Holmes and the London War, as I call it."

"That's impressive," John told her. Jen shrugged.

"Just something I picked up from experience. I don't think it's that impressive," she replied taking a sip of her coffee.

"What did you do before you worked at Saint Bart's?"

"Well," she sighed, "I worked with the government for quite a while doing things like… well like that," she pointed to the manila file, "but unfortunately along the way you pick up enemies. After a while it became trying. I couldn't even have friends without suspecting them, so I quit and came back to the beautiful country of England, where the weather is as unpredictable as my mood." John chuckled at the comment as he sipped his coffee.

"As for your original question, I missed the excitement of it all until I met Sherlock," John remarked. "It's never boring around him, which is nice most days, but others-"

"You kind of wish he would fall off a building?" she suggested. John nodded looking exasperated. She could feel the stress rolling off his making her tense.

"He can be so childish at times," John muttered. "It's just… unnerving."

"He's a sociopath, John. What do you expect?" He tapped his coffee cup gently.

"I was wondering-"

"If I would tell you what exactly the relationship is with, Mr. Holmes?" she finished for him. "As you've clearly seen, it's not exactly a we-were-just-classmates relationship, but I can't tell you that story… not now. Perhaps a different day." Her eyes flickered out the window, and John realized again he can't push her to tell him. There was something in her movements and words when she spoke of Sherlock that told him it wasn't a pleasant relationship, whatever it was.

They continued to chat away as the day turned into afternoon. They talked about a number of things raging from crap television to work to even the weather. All in all it was enjoyable. The only thing she wouldn't really talk about was her family, and though he found it a bit odd, he didn't press her.

"You know," John smiled as he walked back to his flat as she had to catch a cab anyway. Her arm was linked with his, "I had a really good time."

"So did I," Jen smiled up at him, and she meant it. He was a rather bright, though not arrogantly so, man, who hadn't seem to mind any of her smaller quirks.

"It's nice to talk to someone normal for a change," he joked, but Jen's smile faltered. He had no idea.

"Look… I know I seem pretty normal today, but… I can get pretty bad, and if you think Sherlock Holmes is bad, you don't want to see me on my bad days."

"I could handle it," John told her confident in himself. Perhaps it was the compliments she gave him.

"Well, I hope so," she muttered as they reach 221 Baker Street. "Back to the loony bin?" she joked.

"Well," John muttered rubbing the back of his neck nervously, "I was hoping maybe I would be lucky enough to at least get a kiss to help survive Sherlock." Jen laughed and nodded.

"Oh, alright," she told him as she leaned into him gently shutting her eyes as her lips touched his, and it first it was alright, and then she realized it definitely wasn't alright. Her eyes flew open, and she pulled away the same time he did. They stared at each other both obviously confused. "One more go?" she questioned.

"Yeah," he muttered, and they kissed this time with what should have been more passion, but there was-

"Nothing," she said pulling away with her lips moved to the side in a disappointed sort of look. "No offense. I'm sure you're a great kisser, but-"

"There was absolutely no chemistry," he agreed. They both stared at each other before they both busted out laughing. They began laughing so hard John was holding the wall to keep himself up, and Jen was holding her sides.

"Friends then?" she asked John holding out her hand. He shook it.

"Friends," he agreed.

"I'll see you another time for coffee or drinks or something," she grinned hailing a cab. "Bye John."

"Bye, Jen," he replied watching her slid into the cab before making his way up the flat.

"Afternoon, John," Mrs. Hudson said making tea in the kitchen. Sherlock was still playing his violin. "You looked like you had a good time with that girl."

"Oh, I did," he grinned sitting down.

"You should bring her around. I'd like to meet your new girlfriend," Mrs. Hudson told him setting tea down on the table between Sherlock and John's chairs. "Sherlock, tea." Sherlock ripped himself away from his thinking and sat down.

"Oh, she's not my girlfriend," John told her. "We decided to just be friends."

"Well, that's nice too dear," Mrs. Hudson smiled leaving them. John watched as Sherlock sipped his tea. He wanted to ask him again how he knew Jen, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't tell him.

"She didn't tell you I presume," Sherlock remarked, "about our… acquaintanceship."

"No," John replied. "Are you going to tell me?"

"No," Sherlock told him.

"And why not?"

"A rift in any sort of relationship you two have struck up would be unfortunate. Now that I know that Ginny is working in London as a psychiatrist, she could be a valuable asset to me," he mused.

"You think the story will cause a rift? Why?" John asked.

"She's not exactly shown in the best light," Sherlock replied. He looked to still thinking. "She's a distraction."

"You just said she's a valuable asset!" John told him.

"She's a valuable asset who happens to be extremely distracting," he told him, "if you recall I objected to you having this date with her. Thankfully, you've come to your senses." John shook his head not bothering to correct him. "How am I expected to work a case when my thoughts are concentrated on a woman I cannot solve?! If she would just let her guard down-" Sherlock had stood and was now pacing.

"You could try talking to her," John told him picking up the paper.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed, "if I'm going to figure her out it has to be through deduction, or she'll simply lie." John rolled his eyes, but he was used to Sherlock's odd behavior by now. He did note that something about Jen certainly unhinged him a little not dislike the mention of Sherlock unhinged her.

* * *

A/N: So, I guess the purpose of this chapter was really that sometimes it's just hard to see passed someone who's of your sexual interests until you have a go at it... and realized it's never going to happen. So it's really a chapter to establish a friendship between John and Jen without any chance of a romance happening. Also, you know it gave us a great opportunity to see Sherlock a position of odd circumstances allowing him to show complete disdain for Jen for reasons still unknown to us (and maybe just a little jealous?). And thank you once again to faithful reviewers: TragicBlossoms and SemiraBlake. Love reviews! Hope you enjoyed! See you tomorrow! Review please!


	10. Late Nights and Early Mornings

It was a week later, and she had yet to have more contact with Mr. Holmes though she did often text John. However, she was so busy she hadn't had time to see John again since their date. On this particular night, or perhaps morning, she was just getting a quick bit to eat at a 24 hour café when she saw him sitting there looking exhausted.

"John?" she asked him confused. He looked up at her, and she gave him a slight smile seeing how very tired he was.

"Oh, Jen," he said exhausted and surprised to see her there. It was after all one in the morning. Most people would be at home likely in bed and not working like she was. "What are you doing here?"

"Closest 24 hour café to the office," she told him. "I was up doing research on the brain of a 34 year old ASPD who died in a car accident on Wednesday. Do you know there's a debate on weather it's environment or physical? Personally, I think it's a bit of both. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in bed like normal people at this hour?"

"I got home tonight," he explained, and then paused as if he was thinking over the story in his head, "and Sherlock was shooting bullets into a wall and-."

"He was shooting a wall?" she questioned. Fine, Sherlock Holmes was a psychopath- er sociopath, but why the hell was he shooting a wall at the early hours of a morning? And then she reminded herself that he was a bored sociopath and needed to let out his anger someway, and it was better than him shooting people.

"He's bored apparently," John confirmed Jen's reasoning sounding tired. "And then there was a head in the fridge."

"There was a head in your fridge? A pig head?" she asked though she knew the answer to that. Nothing else would do for proper experimentation except for a human head. Most people stored such things in labs not a flat's fridge. Poor John.

"Human," he replied. "Apparently an experiment."

"Ah… that's lovely," she said slowly. She pitied John for having to put up with such nonsense and insanity.

"So I went to Sarah's," he explained. Sarah was his latest girlfriend she had heard about, "but then I remembered that she was visiting her parents. So here I am." Jen bit her lip looking at him. God's she didn't want to offer, but she wouldn't have him sleeping in a café. He was a good guy, and she considered him a friend. she wouldn't let him just stay there.

"Look, um… why don't you take my couch? I was going to go back to the office, but I can do a little work at home."

"I couldn't-"

"No really. You could," she told him with a smile. "Come on." John followed her out of the café quietly.

"You know… Molly's right… you are a nice person," John told her. "Though, I'm a bit surprised you offered."

"Can I tell you a secret?" she asked him with a gentle smile. He nodded slowly. "I know where you're coming from. I tended to attract the minds of the unstable, and being around them my whole life, I became defensive and hard, and it'll happen to you if you don't have someone to lean on when he's at his most unstable. You're a good guy, John. I won't let you become like me."

"I don't think you're bad at all," John told her. "I think that you're very kind, very smart, and very tough."

"Thanks," she smiled, "but that just means you don't know me." They stepped up the stairs to her apartment complex into the building. "I can be the exact opposite at times expecially when you get on my bad side." They took the stairs up to her apartment slowly as they continued to talk.

"Like Sherlock?" John asked. She laughed.

"No, not like Mr. Holmes. It may seem like that I dislike, because... well, I owe him," she told him, "and I owe no one. People owe me not the other way around. If he wanted to, Mr. Holmes could destroy me and everything I am."

"He could destroy you? How?" John asked her wondering if he would finally get reason for the hostility.

"He has knowledge that could have me put away for a very long time," she told John, "but he's kept it to himself all these years."

"Put you away for a long time? What did you do kill someone?" he joked with a smile, but Jen gave him a slight smile that told him that very well could be the truth and very likely was surprising him. Jen opened the door to number 506 on the top floor.

John noted that she was rather neat. Although she had several stacks of books and papers out, they were put in neat stacks on the coffee table in front of the couch as well as on the side tables and a desk in one corner and the piano in another. She had a series of bookshelves filled with a wide range of both fiction and nonfiction works. Her television had a sheet over it as if she never often used it. There was a diagram of a brain sitting in the center of the coffee table, and it had various labels done in her handwriting. The last thing he noted was the gun sitting on her side table near her couch. Why would she need or want a gun?

"Let me get you a blanket and a couple of pillows," she said as she quickly entered the room and threw the gun in a side table before making her way to her room. John could see clothes in piles on the floor in her room but couldn't make out much else. She came out from her closet and set them on the couch. "I'll be up until around four and then I wake up around six, six thirty. If you need anything, just ask."

"You only sleep two hours?" he asked her in slight disbelief, and he thought Sherlock was bad.

"Oh, I've been an insomniac for years. Every month or so, I just crash or Molly drugs me, which every ever comes first. I usually don't get up for three-four days after that. Then I'm back to the same pattern."

"Oh," he said not really sure what to say to her explanation.

"Anyway, just knock. I'll be working. Feel free to turn on the telly. I don't watch it often, but you're free to. I get every channel, because I can. Have a good night."

"You too, and thank you," he called as she quietly shut the door. He watched the door curiously. He found it interesting how different and yet similar that Sherlock and Jen were. They were both geniuses always focusing on their work that barely slept and experimented on the strangest things. John half wondered if there was any body parts in her fridge. He swept it under the rug and decided he's rather not know.

* * *

John woke up to the sound of a gun being cocked. His eyes opened slightly, and he was immediately met with the sight of Damon in nothing but boxers aiming a gun at John's head. He went into soldier mode ready to fight off the man if necessary.

"Who the hell are you, and why are you in my flat?" he asked. John seemed too surprised to answer, but the fire alarm went off startling both of them as they both scrambled to the kitchen to see Jen leaning over the garbage scrapping of burned food from a pan.

"Morning," she grinned. "Tried to make breakfast. Yet another thing I've not learned to conquer." John smiled, and Damon looked mortified.

"That's one of the good pans," he whined snatching the pan from her. "What did it do to you?"

"It was mocking me," she replied with a teasing smile before it fell when she saw the gun. "Damon! What are you doing with that gun!?"

"There's a stranger in the house," he muttered absently pointing to John with the gun as he tried to see if the pan was salvageable.

"He's not a stranger," she told him taking the gun from him and unloading it with expert hands, John noted. "His name is John Watson, and he's a friend."

"Oh," he frowned looking at John throwing the pan in the sink not far from him. "Sorry about that. Never know who you'll find in this house. You have to be on your guard."

"It's alright. I'm a military man and the flat mate of Sherlock Holmes. I understand being alert," John told him.

"Damon O'Hera," he said holding out a hand. John looked shocked. Everyone knew the name Damon O'Hera. If you wanted anything illegal, he was the man to go to from drugs to organs. Everyone knew it, but Scotland Yard had yet to find any proof convicting him properly, so he was free to roam London as he wished and continue lording over criminals as he wished.

"I'm sorry. Did you say O'Hera?" John asked looking between Jen and Damon. How in the hell did she end up living with him?

"Yes, yes, as the man who practically runs the London Black Market," Jen said bored. "He's not the psychopath that news media claims he is. Actually, Damon's one of the calmest people I know."

"Thank you for that," Damon smiled dropping his hand when it became evident that there would be no proper greeting.

"Though he is also a man who has the loosest morals I've ever seen," she remarked making him frown.

"You're no prize yourself," he muttered opening the fridge to look for something edible. There was nothing in there remotely interesting making Damon sigh at his roommate. "You didn't go shopping."

"I've been busy," she replied a little too quickly. She hasn't been so busy as she would forget groceries just busy to keep her mind off of Holmes and any other issues she was facing. Damon rolled his eyes.

"No, you haven't," he said able to tell a lie from her with out any problem.

"Yes, I have."

"No, you haven't. You sit in your office all day throwing a tennis ball at a wall. You're not busy," he replied. His phone went off cause him to take it off the counter. He sighed. "Business is starting early today. I have to go. I'll see you later." He kissed her cheek and left to get dressed.

"Want to go out then?" John asked her pointing to the door.

"Yup," she said with a smile as she grabbed her purse and coat. "Did you sleep alright?" she asked as they walked down the stairs.

"I've got a bit of a chink in my neck," he admitted rubbing the back of his neck.

"I'll take a look at it in the café," she told him. "I worked as a masseuse while I was at uni," she told him seeing his strange look, but he only gave her a stranger look.

"Don't you need school for that?" he asked her.

"Well, I faked most of the schooling I have," she admitted to him. She found it rather easy to tell John her faults. How dangerous, she mused. "I entered uni claiming that I already had four years under my belt. I had a friend fake some files, and I was smart enough for people to believe it. In reality, I quit school when I was eight and then when I was thirteen I was forced back, but I was expelled a lot, so I hopped from school to school. I finally just ran off when I was fifteen, and then I didn't go back until I was nineteen when I headed to uni. Lucky I was clever though."

"Why did you quit?" John asked.

"It's a long story," she told him sounding exhausted as they made their way down the street to the café. "Not one I care to talk about. It's bit private."

"I understand," John said as she held the door open for him.

"Thanks," he replied stepping in and her after. They both sat down to get something to eat. "Do you come here often?" he asked looking around at the small, cozy café.

"Hi, Jen," the waitress grinned approaching their table. "Who's the guy? I would say boyfriend, but you don't do the whole relationship thing," she said.

"Answer your question?" she asked John flatly. "Amber, this is Doctor John Watson. John, this is Amber."

"Nice to meet you," John said holding out his hand. She took it and shook.

"A doctor you say?" she flirted.

"Stop it," Jen said rolling her eyes. "Just get us two coffees." Amber went off leaving them to a new topic of conversation.

"Is Damon your boyfriend?" John asked confused.

"Flat mate and dear, old friend," she told him. "I know he's a criminal and everyone knows it, -though I'll have you know Scotland Yard has no proof- but I like Damon. He knows how to calm me down on bad days. His little sister is schizophrenic, so he's used to having to deal with the mentally unwell. That's how we met. I was visiting someone in the institution the same day he was. We just sort of clicked, but it's always been more platonic between us. He's like a brother, and he takes care of me even when I don't want to be taken care of. He doesn't let my stubbornness stop him."

"Certainly doesn't sound like the psychopathic drug lord he's shown on the news," John said. She shrugged.

"So his morals aren't exactly the best, but he's a good guy. He's fair, and for a criminal, he's surprisingly clean. He doesn't kill innocent people, and he refuses to prostitute women, but maybe I'm just being ignorant." She paused staring up at the television the wall. Her eyes widened. "John," she breathed staring at the television. He looked to the telly and saw the headline House Destroyed on Baker Street. "We have to go," Jen said standing with John. They rushed down the streets. There was police swarming around the premises. She sighed. "You go on. Check on them," she told John. She looked around the scene. "I'm going to ask around. See what happened. Probably a supposed gas leak. Text me to let me know." John nodded in agreement before he rushed off leaving Jen to look around a question a few bystanders.

* * *

Calling Sherlock's name twice, John came into the room to see the now boarded up window. Sherlock sat looking annoyed as he sat plucking the strings to his violin absently. He looked to John.

"John," he said. John looked to see Mycroft sitting opposite of Sherlock. Sherlock seemed less than pleased by this.

"I saw it on the telly. Are you okay?" he asked him still concerned.

"Hmm? What?" Sherlock asked disinterested before he looked at his surrounding remembering there had been a bombing. "Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently," he said absently before turning back to his brother, and continuing a conversation they were having before John had showed up. "I can't."

"Can't"? Mycroft asked as if he knew better. Can't never meant can't. It meant I refuse to do as you say out of spite.

"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time," he informed him, and John just stared at him as if he's lost his mind. Sherlock was just shooting a wall the other night, because he was so bore.

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance," Mycroft informed him. Sherlock should no change in mind as he moved his fingers across the violin again.

"How's the diet?" he asked not really caring. He just wanted to annoy his elder brother by any means necessary.

"Fine," he replied knowing Sherlock was trying to rile him up. He turned to the only sensible one in the room. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John."

"What?" John asked as he hadn't been paying attention. He had put a pot of tea on and was trying to assess the damage both brothers seemed to be ignoring.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock asked him. Mycroft was certainly capable of it. He just chose not to use his power of deductions for such reasons. He was never the physical kind, always the manipulative kind.

"No-no-no-no-no," Mycroft refused. "I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time – not with the Korean elections so…" He tailed off as John turned towards him in surprise, and Sherlock raised his head from looking at his violin. Mycroft realized he was saying too much. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" He smiled humorlessly at them to let them know they won't hear any more of this. "Besides, a case like this – it requires… legwork." Sherlock plucked one of his strings quite irked with his brother. Though, when is he not? His eyes went to John, who was absently rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

"How's Sarah, John? How was the lilo?" he asked him.

"Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa," Mycroft said pointing out what Sherlock missed as he looked at his pocket watch. Sherlock reassessed John.

"Oh yes, of course," Sherlock muttered.

"I didn't sleep at Sarah's," John informed him making Sherlock pause. He observed John again.

"Why were you at _her _house? That bloody enigma better not be here," he said violently plucking a violin string this time in a violence he didn't typically show for Mycroft.

"She's outside," John sighed at Sherlock's irritation with Jen. To be fair, she was particularly easant to Sherlock. "Said something about asking around."

"Who are we talking about?" Mycroft asked.

"Doctor Ginevra Lorraine," John told him, and Mycroft raised his head in interest at the name. "She's-"

"The most infuriating creature I have the displeasure to meet. She is an enigma, a crux," Sherlock told him bitterly as John texted Jen.

**Everyone's fine though Sherlock just called you the most infuriating creature he had the displeasure to meet, an enigma, and a crux. –John**

"I was going to say she is a psychiatrist at Saint Bart's, and that in an odd way, she helped solve the London Maniac case," John told him though Sherlock didn't appreciate the implication of her assisting him with solving a case.

"She didn't help," Sherlock told him curtly. His phone went off. "You're texting her, aren't you?" he accused.

**Is it bad that I feel some sort of accomplishment from that? According to the police, it was a gas leak. According to residents, there was a strange man lurking about. I may or may not look more into this. –Jen**

"She said that the police are claiming it's a gas leak, but she said residents are talking about a stranger lurking about," John told him. "She might look into it."

"That will just give her more reason to be around here," Sherlock told him. Lord knows Holmes didn't want that. He had enough of her playing with his head. "Tell her to mind her own business."

"You tell her," John replied.

"Fine," Sherlock replied irritated as he took his phone from his pocket and violently texted her. John sighed.

"She's really a nice person," John told him trying to convince Sherlock that Jen was not the person he claimed. Perhaps she had changed since her school days. People can change though he doubted Sherlock would see it that way.

"Ginny is anything but nice John. Manipulative? Yes. Self-righteous? Yes. But not nice."

"Ginny?" Mycroft asked sounding delightfully surprised now. Sherlock stared at him with narrow eyes with suspicion. "This wouldn't happen to be the Ginny you obsessed over as a teenager."

"Obsessed over?" John asked incredibly interested now.

"Oh, yes," Mycroft replied with a rather smug look on his face. "There was a classmate of Sherlock's. She disappeared in the middle of a school year, and Sherlock was obsessed with finding out what became of her. Never did find her. Is it the same one?"

"Yes," Sherlock muttered defeated.

"So, what became of her? If I recall, she was quite the trouble for Headmaster Dart," Mycroft remembered as he took a sip of tea. Sherlock continued to observe him. Why was Mycroft interested? There was an obvious reason. He just had to find it.

"She's top in the field of psychology," Sherlock told him. "She became a psychiatrist and author of numerously praised books." His eyes drifted to the book shelf that held all of 'Jacob Facet's' works. He grudgingly had to admit they were good. If he had to reference something in psychology, he would often turn to these books, but now he looked at them like a disease and would not touch them with a ten foot pole.

"And where did she go missing to?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock spat. "If I asked she would lie. She's a compulsive liar, and she's a rather good liar too."

"I don't think she lies as often as you think," John told him with a frown.

"That's because you're naïve," Sherlock told him without a care. Sherlock stood and looked out the blown out window down to the streets. He could see her talking with one of the police officers. He owed her his life, and in just a single second, she could ruin his career and send him to jail. He reminded himself this fact again before he turned away.

* * *

A/N: Ah, so more is learned about the debt, at least on Jen's side. So we are now into the Great Game, which means Jim! =D So I think... I will keep updating daily until Saturday as I am stranded with nothing else to do, and then, I will be updating weekly. I'm thinking Thursdays, Saturdays, or Sundays. I haven't decided. Thanks to reviewers: Flute Domination and as always TragicBlossoms and SemiraBlake. Hope you enjoyed! See you tomorrow! Review Please!


	11. 1-1 Psychopath

She stepped down the stairs looking through a file of hers. She had left her phone in Molly's lab when she had come down to escape the demands of the head of the hospital yet again but was in desperate need of it now. "Molly, have you seen-" She paused as she looked up from her folder at the room noticed a very disturbing scene. Sherlock was looking through a microscope while John, Molly, and a man she had never met all stared at Sherlock in a loving manner as if he was some sort of God that needed revering. Sherlock Holmes was a human trying to be a God, but that was it, wasn't it? He was human. "Oh for God's sake!" she shouted snapping the folder shut and making everyone jump as they didn't hear her enter. They all looked at her. "He's not that… he's just a man. If I stab him, he'll bleed!"

"Go away, Ginny," Sherlock said coldly. "You are distracting."

"No," she said sitting in a chair and slamming down her folder on the counter. Why? Why was this annoying man entering her life now? Why couldn't he just leave her life? They managed three years with her in London without any run in, now he was everywhere. She stared at him irritated; she felt her hands clench into a fist. Her mood was not the pleasant right now, and the atmosphere in the room reflecting him being some creature of grandeur was making it worse. He looked over her just as irritated. He looked over her trying to deduce her. All he could say with certainty was that she was a psychiatrist, which he knew; she didn't sleep much, which he knew, and that she was seething, which was so obvious even John could see that. He scoffed but continued to look her over.

"Oh! Jen, this is Jim," Molly said trying to introduce her, but she just glared at Sherlock. For some reason, more than the debt, he just got under her skin though she couldn't quite explain it, she had a feeling this would be the height of her hatred for him. The feeling was mutual on his end. Sherlock's hands were clenched as he rested the urge to throw her out of the lab so he could proceed to work.

"So you're Sherlock Holmes," Jim said breaking the silence. "Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" he asked him.

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock asked Jen. "Get your cell phone and get out." She swiped her phone off the counter near him but continued to give him a look of loathing.

"I want to ruin you, Mr. Holmes," she said quite clearly. "I want to ruin, because it would be a challenge."

"Jen, you promised not to do this," Molly said flustered and slightly begging her. Molly had seen Jen ruin people, and it wasn't pleasant. Her target always ended up in a state of complete defeat.

"Words are empty," she replied quickly as her and Sherlock continued their staring contest.

"I'd like to see you try," he replied in a challenge. He imagined that a battle with her wits or even a physical altercation would be a challenge he would find difficult to face.

"Is that a dare, Mr. Holmes?" she asked him fiddling her phone in a single hand as she made a rather bad attempt to keep her anger in control.

"I double dare you," he said playing her games.

"You'll regret that," she told him tilting her head as she watched him carefully through curious eyes.

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance," Molly said trying to break the tension in the room but failing. There was no stopping their intense arguing.

"Why do you feel the need to break those you find superior to you?" he asked her still observing her and her movements. "Something's happened to you to give you that superiority and inferiority complex, but what? A lonely little girl who felt unloved by her family."

"How about the lonely boy that everyone proclaimed a freak," she relied coldly.

"Jim is-"

"Gay," Sherlock finished for her coldly having no interest in this Jim at the moment. He had no interest in anyone, but the woman in front of him proclaiming to be his downfall. He dwelled over the idea of her behind his demise. He wondered if she could manage it, and how he would feel about it if she was the one who ended him. Molly's frown deepened.

"Sorry, what?" Molly asked.

"Not gay," Jen replied in challenge. She really didn't look at Jim as she challenged Sherlock's accusation. She was really just arguing the opposite for the sake of an argument.

"Now you're just trying to refute me for the sake of it," he replied hitting the nail on the head. Jen snorted.

"Right," she replied sarcastically hiding the truth as her phone went off taking her mind away from the sudden bitterness that had been consuming her.

**You're late. -Carrie**

"Well, this has been just pleasing," she said bitterly. "I have to go." She turned to leave. She made her way annoyed to the elevator. She hit the button hard before she stepped inside and pressed the button for several floors above. She wondered if Carrie would mind heading to a gym of some sort. She certainly couldn't bring her to the fight ring.

"Hold the elevator!" a voice shouted. She held the doors and saw Molly's supposedly gay boyfriend, Jim. She rolled her eyes and allowed him in. He gave her a smile which she ignored and stepped inside. "Thanks. You're Molly's friend, aren't you?" he asked as she let go of the doors. He seemed pleasant enough. Good for Molly.

"Yes," she said bored not truly interested. If he and Molly were serious, which was- she hated to admit- doubtful, she would meet him when she was in a more pleasant mood and not ready to murder the next idiot to antagonize her.

"You seem to really hate Sherlock Holmes," he said innocently. Jen rolled her eyes. No shit, she thought before finally looking at him. She started with his feet and moved her way up. She had to admit that so far, Sherlock was right about the gay thing until she hit his eyes. She frowned. There was a problem- no, problem was a immense mistake. This was catastrophe. This man was a threat to her, but more importantly he was a threat to her friend. She hit the button to stop the lift mid ride.

"Why'd you stop it?" he asked her innocently. It was unnerving, and she wasn't going to play games with a psychopath, not today, not now. She wasn't going to have him acting like he was just some bystander.

"1-1," she told him very seriously.

"What?" he asked her.

"1-1. I only ever use the statistics 1-1 in one case, and one case only, if the person in front me is a complete unpredictable psychopath, who would kill me without a second glance and enjoy every second of it. You are 1-1. What do you want?" He looked to her acting surprised, still acting innocent. She wouldn't buy it. "Cut the bullshit. It's just you and me here. Who the hell are you?" He smiled at her incredibly pleased. His face seemed to warp from one of a nervous, innocent man to one of sharp wit and cruel thought. It was frightening.

"You may not have the deductions of Mr. Holmes, but you know a psychopath when you see one," Jim said switching to a more natural Irish accent. "Very good, Doctor, but what now?" he asked.

"Tell me who you are," she demanded.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet," he told her with a mocking smile. "A psychopath would still be a psychopath, and a genius still a genius no matter his name." Oh, it was a bad idea to mock her, not now. Not when she was already fuming.

"Listen, you psychopath," she snapped grabbing his shirt and pulling him to her eye level, "tell me a name, or so help me I will strangle life out of you."

"Oh, feisty," he grinned before she threw him into the wall of the lift. He started laughing. This was the problem with dealing with 1-1 psychopaths they found violence entertaining, even beautiful. Nothing made them back off; nothing made them give themselves away.

"A name!" she shouted digging so hard into his shirt she was now pressing into skin.

"Jim Moriarty," he breathed with a grin. Her eyes widened, and she stumbled back to the other side of the lift to put as much distance between herself and this man, this man whose name had contributed to the hell she once lived in.

"_Oh, it wasn't all me, Lupa," a woman told her as she held a gun to her head. "I had help… he was my creator, my salvation. I was normal once, just an innocent girl whose dreams had been stomped on, but he showed me what I could be_. _He showed me the darkness of this world, and how beautiful chaos can be."_

_"No!" Jen refused. "No, this is all you, Ursa! Don't go blaming someone for what you are!" _

_"Blaming someone? I'm thanking him," she told her. "He opened my eyes. James Moriarty." _

"Oh, so my reputation precedes me?" he teased her. She opened and closed her mouth not sure what to say. She was more stunned than she was afraid. He came closer to her before he pulled her to his side with his arm wrapped around her. She looked up at him in confusion and worry. She was worried he knew who she was. She worried that he would call her out on it. She was worried he would tell her that _she _was still alive looking for Jen. "Not to worry, I won't hurt you, Doctor, not yet at least. There would be no fun in that," he informed her.

"No fun?" she asked him quietly. "What do you mean?"

"You and I have something in common," he told her leaning into her to speak to her in an intimate manner. It disturbed her, but she kept her face steeled.

"And what's that?" she asked him. He leaned even closer to her and whispered into her ear. His lips brushed against her as he spoke making her shutter and grimace.

"We both want to see Sherlock Holmes in ruins," he said before he leaned in farther allowing his body to press into hers as he hit the button to continue the journey up the levels of the floor. The lift shuttered to a start and Jim gave her just a tad bit of breathing room; Jen silently was processing everything. He didn't know her. He didn't know who she was. It was a relief, but this man was still around Molly and wanted to watch Sherlock Holmes suffer. Would she play this game? Could she play this game? The lift stopped for her.

"I don't care about your game with Mr. Holmes," she told him finally, "but stay the hell away from Molly or so help me you find yourself in a battle you don't want to be in. Do I make myself clear?" She knew the threat meant nothing to him, but she would at least make an attempt to warn him. She wanted him away from Jim as quick as possible.

"Crystal," he sang, and Jen sighed before heading to her office. She had only met one other 1-1 psychopath in her life, and that was her brother. They were intensely difficult to deal with. And now she was a left with another problem: to tell Mr. Holmes, or to turn her back on him and allow Jim to ruin him as Jen had promised. She needed to think; she needed to clear her head. She needed to decided if she wanted to do what was right or what she thought she wanted. Was Sherlock Holmes in ruin truly what she wanted, or was she reflecting her anger and irritation onto Holmes for reasons he didn't deserve?

* * *

A/N: Ah, Jim. Got to love him. Andrew Scott is a brilliant Moriarty, my favorite. See you tomorrow! Review please!


	12. Playing the Game

She sat in her office with her head in her hands thinking over what had happened between Jim Moriarty and herself as well as what she had said to Sherlock. Yes, in that moment she was harsh and unreasonably cold. She had declared that she would ruin him, but Jim's proclamation that he really wanted him in ruins struck her making her have to face the reasons for her intense dislike of Sherlock Holmes. When had she turned bitter against him? She had found him off but intriguing during school. In fact, she often defended him from the other kids in school, because she wouldn't stand for their treatment just because he was different. She liked that he was different. She had liked what she knew him. So what changed? When had that intrigue turned to anger? She supposed it was when she came back to London, and one of her patience mentioned Sherlock Holmes. He was a consulting detective, or so she was told. The very mention of his name at first brought her interest; she considered looking him up and really getting to know him, but as days moved on, he held no more interest. Rather, she became agitated. She was reminded that there were people who would recognize her, and even worse, there were people that could ruin her and bring up her past. People who were a reminder of what she had done and what she could be.

It wasn't so much anger toward Sherlock as it was anger toward herself. Sherlock was just a reminder of a past she wanted to forget; she wasn't that girl anymore. All she wanted, or thought she wanted, was a calm, peaceful, normal life, but Sherlock could destroy that with a single sentence. He could discredit it her and have her put away. When she looked at him, she was her worst self.

But would he even attempt to use his knowledge to turn her to ruin as she threatened to do to him? Sherlock Holmes was a pain in the ass, but he wasn't cruel. When he was cruel, it was never intentional. Her anger toward him was not justified, and she knew that. Something about him just brought out the worst in her, and the worst her was the most unpleasant, cruel person.

Sighing, Jen stood and left her office. Her secretary tried to stop her to no avail. She found herself walking to 221 Baker Street ignoring the other obligations she had for the day. She had to make this right; she had to warn Sherlock Holmes about Jim Moriarty. She had witnessed the disaster monsters like him cause, and she couldn't see that happen to anyone else. She knocked on the door and was greeted by John.

"Hi, Jen," John said with a smile though he was unsure how to act after witnessing her act toward Sherlock.

"Hi, John. Sherlock here?" she asked in a monotone voice. She wasn't sure what she should be feeling. Anxious? Angry? Forgiving? Shame? Shame for even thinking about letting Jim just toy with Sherlock? Yes, that's what she should be feeling: shame. John gave her a rather confused look before he nodded and let her through the door. He led her upstairs to 221B. She was greeted with something that she couldn't really liken to a mess, but more of they had far too many things fitted on too few shelves. The apartment was littered with numerous books (she even spotted the books she wrote) and numerous things applying to Sherlock's work including chemistry equipment spread across the kitchen table. Sherlock stood in front of laptop behind a desk thinking.

"Sherlock," John said. He paused and looked up his eyes fell on Jen. His face turned into a mix of disgust and irritation.

"What are you doing here?" he sneered. Oh, how to even start? The whole situation was a bit of a mess, and she didn't have a doubt that Sherlock would take a good deal of convincing if her warning was to do any good. She wasn't even sure if he'd listen but making some sort of a effort was a start, wasn't it?

"I came to warn you," she replied simply though she felt awkward about this whole thing, "about a man, Molly's 'gay' boyfriend. I believe he's a danger to you. He's not who you think he is."

"Oh really?" he asked clear that he didn't believe her. "Then who is he?"

"He's a psychopath named James Moriarty," she replied. Sherlock paused before he walked around his desk to approach her.

"Where did you hear that name?" Sherlock demanded gripping her shoulders tight. He looked a bit mad; she realized he had heard this name before. He had heard it in a way that could make him either excited or scared or angry maybe? She couldn't tell what emotion he was running on right now, but it was definitely some sort of emotion.

"He told me his name," she replied unsure if he knew if Jim was Moriarty or if Sherlock had simply heard it. "James Moriarty."

"Don't try and make a fool out of me," he replied harshly. "Where did you hear that name?"

"I'm not trying to make a fool out of you!" she shouted hitting his hands from her shoulders. "I'm trying to help you, you stupid prat!"

"And why would you want to help me when you claim to want to ruin me?" he asked her. Anger was rolling off him.

"I won't lie; I let anger get the best of me," she admitted, "but if you don't listen to me, he'll kill you. He's not a man, Mr. Holmes; he's a demon. Jim Moriarty assisted in the destruction of my life."

"And you expect me to just take your word?" he asked her. "You expect me to believe that a man who left me his number after Molly so elegantly attempted to introduced him is a psychopath and is Moriarty? What do you take me for? If Moriarty was standing in front of me, I would know." Of course he didn't believe her; he had every right to distrust her. She never earned any trust from him, quite the opposite actually, and to be completely honest, the whole thing sounded rather ridiculous. That's the thing with men like Moriarty, wasn't it? They were so intelligently arrogant that they could do something like hand their name and number out to their enemies, and anyone who attempted to tell him the truth was thought of us mad or, in this case, a conspirator. She opened her mouth ready to respond but wasn't sure what to say. This was going exactly how she imagined it would. "At least make your lie believable, Ginny," he snapped before turning back to his desk. He didn't intend to waste anymore time on her. "Now get out." Jen shook her head; she tried to bury her anger toward him and this is what she gets? This is why she didn't bother.

"Know what?" she growled. "Fine! But don't blame me if you get killed by a psycho, because you were too much of a pretentious asshole to actually listen to me." She turned on her heels angry again as she marched out of the room and out the house slamming the door behind her. She took a deep breath before she continued walking down the road toward her apartment complex. She needed to rest even if it was just a moment. Maybe she would actually take her medication to even out her emotions.

She waited to cross the street to her apartment complex. She tapped her foot impatiently waiting for the traffic to die down enough to cross. She stepped one foot on the pavement and as if it was a pressure trigger, Boom! An explosion coming from her apartment complex threw her off her feet onto the ground. She was deafened and highly disoriented as the sirens around her blared. She peeled herself off the ground and stumbled into a building before she collapsed back onto the ground. Debris had hit her in a half a dozen places. Her phone went off next to her as it had fallen out of her pocket onto the ground next to her. With what little consciousness she had left, she looked at her phone.

**Never let your enemies know how much you know. Just a friendly hint, darling! =D xJim**

Jen let her arm fall to her side as paramedics raced to help her, and she fell into darkness.

* * *

She hated hospitals; she hated a lot of things, but hospitals were definitely at the top of her list between flying and crowds. However, as much as she hated them, she allowed the doctors sew the wounds shut as well as check for any cracks in her skull. They told her she would be out tomorrow, but she wouldn't even be staying that long in the hospital. Jim had plans for her.

"So the flat and everything in it is destroyed?" Damon asked her over the phone. Where ever he was, it was surprisingly quiet though she knew he was working. He was likely about to talk a deal with a client or fellow 'coworker' or had done the deal already and was now sitting in his office that loomed over the fight ring behind sound proof walls.

"Yes," she replied. He was taking it rather well really. It wasn't surprising. Damon was a very calm person, and more than once, he had been the reason for the destruction of flats they had shared in the past, so he let this one slid.

"You need to find a new flat then," he told her with a sigh, "as soon as possible."

"I'm already working on it," she told him, which wasn't a lie. She had looked in several newspapers at potential flats while in the hospital. She was always on top of things. Her phone beeped letting her know she either had an incoming text message or a call. "Hold on, Damon," she said pulling her phone from her ear to look at the new text.

**Come play at the pool, hun. xJim **Jen stared at the text with disdain, but she was prepared to deal with Jim Moriarty this time around. As much as she hated to, she would have to cash in a favor.

"Listen, Damon, I've got to go. Don't worry about it," she told him. "I'll keep looking for flats. Bye." She hung up before he could respond. She quickly dialed a different number in her phone.

"Hello?" a tired male voice asked on the other line. It was a voice she hadn't heard in ages.

"The pack is stronger together but draws more attention," she replied. She could hear the phone fall quickly to the ground in shock but was picked back up.

"So we wait until the shadows grow for us to hide," the man replied making her smile.

"Hello, Ulric. This is Lupa."

"Lupa, but you're supposed to be-"

"First rule is that we all lie, Ulric. Now listen," she sighed, "I need a favor."

* * *

"Ah! You came, you feisty brunette," Jim said as she walked into the pool area. She stood on the other side of the pool out of her hospital clothes and into the nicest professional clothes she owned, a fitted black dress with a red belt around the middle that matched her red pumps, jacket, and lipstick. She looked between John, Sherlock, and Jim. There was a bomb jacket between them. Sherlock was pointing the gun at it while John had a red dot from a sniper on his forehead. She raised an eyebrow and smirked._ Show him you're playing. Remain as calm and cocky as possible. Play the part, or you're dead._

"Of course I came," she replied slowly walking around the pool. It wasn't for dramatic effect. The wounds from the debris were still fresh, and she didn't want to move to fast cause her to show pain, weakness. "What do you want me here for? To kill me as well?"

"I figure two birds, one stone," he told her. "You caught on to me a little too quickly, and then you ran off to Sherlock like a naughty little girl. Good thing he thought you were lying," he sang. "So I figured, I would take you out of the picture as well, Doctor."

"Call me Jen," she told him.

"Jen and Jim," he laughed. "You and I could be quite the duo."

"Well, there nothing sexier than a psychopath who can get things done. I like a man with power," she remarked playing his game. She wasn't a novice in these games, and she hated these games, but she would play them if she had to. "Except, I need a man who can beat me, and you've lost, James," she told him finally reaching them. She stood closest to Jim

"I've lost!" he asked his emotions suddenly turning on a dime, and it was exhausting Jen. Her own emotions were going at a rapid speed. "What do you mean I've lost!?"

"Keep your emotions in check, James. Really," she replied with a frown, "it's disappointing."

"I wouldn't want to disappoint you, would I?" he asked her calming down as she finally stood but a foot from him.

"No, it would be a bad idea," she told him. Hopefully, her favor would pay off, but who knew with these type of men. She held out a singular notecard, and he ripped it out of her hand. His anger fizzled, and he laughed as he read it. "You are audacious. I like that in woman."

"Do go on, James," she breathed amused.

"So you want me to let these two live. It's really just not fair," he whined.

"You're right," she remarked._ Play the game. Show him you aren't a toy. Show him you're in charge, and you're not scared of him._ "Their lives for that? I think I deserve something of a refund. Oh, I know," she said casually before she slapped him hard across the face making everyone pause as the sound echoed through the pool. Her handprint was left on the side his face in a angry pink mark. "That was for blowing up my flat," she snapped. He laughed as he recovered from her slapping him. _Oh, he's laughing. This is good. This is very good. You're winning. Keep it up._

"Now, I have to know: who are you? You're not just some ordinary psychiatrist," he remarked. "There's something more." She smirked. _Don't tell him anything important; he'll use it against you._

"Never wandered in the shadows, James. That's where the wolves roam," she told him, and his face warped into shock, and her conscious was raging at her though she kept a mask on. _What the fuck did you just do!? Why did you tell him that!?_

"Nooo," he said amazed understanding the meaning behind the words. "You? Oh, now that it explains it! So, if I walk out of here, will I be gunned down?"

"Gunned down isn't the way we do things," Jen told him. "You don't know me, so I'll tell you this once. If I want to kill you, you'll be armed, facing me, and have chance. That's not now since you still have gun pointed at John's head." At this, Jim paused before he raised his hand. The red dot left John's head.

"So what now, Jen?" he asked her, and they stared at each other. "What do you really want?" he asked her. "I thought you wanted to ruin Sherlock, but here you are defending him. So what is it you want?" Her eyes went to his jacket, and she gently straightened the Westwood jacket before she looked back up at him keeping her hands on his jacket. He held her in his dark stare, but she didn't let herself drown in those eyes though she had to admit although a complete psychopath the man just had something particularly enticing about him. It was a shame he was on the other side.

"I'll let you know," she replied quietly, "but right now, you have nothing else I want. You'll get it tomorrow." She let go of his jacket and started to turn to the door, but he grabbed her arm tight cutting off her circulation. _One last threat__, _she reminded herself of the typical protocol with these sort of things. She had to be given a reminding incentive to give Moriarty what she promised.

"I'll skin you and turn you into shoes if you've lied," he told her. She smiled as pleasant smile as she could manage to muster as a feeling of panic and anger attempted to overwhelm her. She needed to get out of this man's presence now.

"Oh, I know," she said ripping her arm away to get some sort of distance from him. "Boys," she called to Sherlock and John as she opened the door for them. They simply walked out leaving Jim Moriarty standing there.

* * *

A/N: After realizing I wanted to end the top part unto the last chapter at the end, it was too late and was forced to add it on this one to my irritation, buuut anyway hope you liked the chapter! This is the last of the daily updates. Regular weekly updates shall occur every Saturday. So I'll see you in a week! Thanks to reviews from faithful reviewers: TragicBlossoms and SemiraBlake, and thanks to a guest reviewer! Review please!


	13. Aftermath

The three of them practically ran outside not saying anything as they tried to get as much distance between them and Moriarty as they could. They felt that they may still be in danger even if they weren't. Moriarty was a mad man who kept them on edge. Sherlock hailed a taxi, and the three slide in the taxi finally feeling permitted to speak.

"What the hell was that!?" John shouted at her. He was confused at the Jen he had just saw; he didn't understand what role she played in this game between Sherlock and Moriarty. She didn't even understand the role she played.

"I gave him what I had to to keep you two idiots alive!" she shouted at him angry that he was shouting at her. How ungrateful. Had she not just risked herself to save them? "221 Baker Street!" she shouted at the cabbie. "You didn't listen to my initial warning, so I took it upon myself to get something he wanted!"

"Of course I didn't listen to your initial warning," Sherlock snapped. "Did you really expect me to believe you!?"

"I expected that you would think I have enough decency not to lie about something like that! Are you so dense!?" she shouted at him irritated.

"Dense! You're the one who threatened to ruin me!" he argued back. His voice was harsh and cold.

"I was running on emotion, Holmes! I didn't know what the bloody fuck I was saying! I'm a BPD patient! I'm not exactly right in the head in case you haven't notice!"

"Believe me! I've noticed," he growled. She scoffed and crossed her arms turning to the window not wanting to talk to Sherlock if he was going to shout at her. To be fair, she was shouting at him just as much, and he was making a fair point.

"What did you give him?" Sherlock asked her confused at what happened. How did she get Moriarty to submit?

"What?" she asked turning her attention back to him.

"What was it!?" he shouted at her getting impatient with Doctor Lorraine. "What did you give Moriarty?!"

"Just information," she told him. "I'm not proud of what I just did, but I couldn't let you two die." Silence fell in the cab as they all pondered over what had happened. Sherlock's eyes fell on her and her façade slowly started melting off. Her hands were shaking badly. Her eyes were darting around. She was scared. She was terrified. Something about Jim has unhinged her in a way he didn't think she could be.

"What is it?" he frowned looking over her. "What are you afraid off?" She looked at him with a weary expression.

"Mr. Holmes," she said gently, "I have a darker past than you could imagine, and I just told James Moriarty about it. Don't be surprised if you find me dead tomorrow. I need to make arrangements." She was shaking as she slowly pulled out her phone to dial Damon. Sherlock's hand gripped her wrist to stop her. Her eyes fell on his.

"You no longer have a flat," he remarked, "and you're in danger. You're best chance of survival is to stay with us, and then, you and I will be even. Finally," he sighed. She felt herself twitch.

"Even?! I owe you! You don't owe me!"

"You saved my life," he told her.

"I would either be dead or in jail if it wasn't for you," she reminded him. "I owe you."

"Connor's interest in you that night was my fault. I was fixing an error," he informed her. "Call it a debt finally paid."

"A debt finally paid!? No! It's not paid! I would owe you more than my life," she told him irked.

"If that's what you think, then something can be arranged," Sherlock told her, "but by my count, I owe you a debt, and this will finally settle it." Oh, he couldn't wait until he was free of Ginevra Lorraine. He may even make an attempt to completely delete her from his mind palace, though it had proven nearly impossible in the past as he still hadn't been able to get rid of Anderson all together.

"Jen," John said gently catching her attention, "I think it would be a good idea especially if you're afraid."

"Where am I supposed to stay?" she asked him. "I doubt your flat has the room for me."

"Mrs. Hudson has a flat in the basement. It's damp and not in the best condition. However, with your money and connections, I assume you could have it habitable in a few days," Sherlock told her.

"A basement flat," she said mulling it over. Was it really such a good idea to move herself in the same building as Sherlock Holmes? They weren't exactly on the best terms lately. Yet, she would find some sort of comfort being in the same building as ridiculous as it sounded. If Moriarty wanted her dead, she would have bullet in her head by the end of the night. She did need to find a flat. "Well, I suppose I could- I'll look at it."

"It's late," Sherlock remarked. "You can sleep on the couch and look at the flat tomorrow."

"I don't sleep on Saturday nights," she said absently.

"You don't sleep?" John asked. She looked to him from her window.

"Not on Saturdays," she told him as if it was obvious. "I'm usually up all night keeping my mind busy."

"Oh," John said simply as the cab jolt to a halt, and Jen paid the cabbie before stepping out after John and Sherlock to 221 Baker Street. They pushed open the door, and Jen followed them upstairs. She was exhausted, but she wouldn't sleep. She had too much on her mind.

"Want some tea?" John asked headed into the kitchen.

"Please," she remarked taking her phone from her pocket before she dialed Damon's number.

"Hello, darling," he said happily on the other line teasing her as he always did. "Bit late for a call, isn't it?"

"It's never too late to talk to me, love," she remarked with an equally teasing tone collapsing onto the sofa. "Do you miss me?"

"Ever so much," he told her laughing. "What may I help you with this morning… it's morning isn't it?"

"It is," she agreed. "I am calling to let you know that I am currently staying with John and Sherlock for the night."

"And where is that?"

"221B Baker Street," she replied. "I'll see you tomorrow?" she asked.

"Would you like me to pick you up from Baker Street then?"

"Yes, and I need a new set of clothes."

"I'll send Myra," he told her.

"Good," she said. There was a moment of silence as she debated whether to tell Damon what happened or not. He would be the one to shoot her dead if he knew. She hadn't been exactly careful, and she had no doubt Damon knew Moriarty, at least his name.

"What's wrong?" he asked her suddenly sensing her tension even over the phone. He knew her far too well.

"Nothing," she told him. "Just worried about… things."

"You are the worst liar I have ever met," he told her.

"Shut up, and I'll see you tomorrow," she said hanging up with the phone not wanting to deal with telling him right now. With a sigh, she threw it on the table next to the couch, and John came in handing her a cup of tea. "Thanks," she muttered taking a sip from the cup. She laid down on the couch tapping her nails against the cup. Her eyes were closed, but they were darting around behind her eyelids, evidence that her brain wasn't even close to shutting down. "I need a laptop," she said suddenly not moving.

"You can borrow mine," he told her. He shuffled across the room as Jen sat up. John set the laptop in her lap. "What do you need it for?" he asked as she went to her email.

"I'm giving James what I told him I would. That notecard only had a sentence saying I had it. To make sure I don't get skinned alive, I need to send him the email."

"What are you giving him?" John asked. He didn't like the idea of her giving away national secrets even if she had to.

"A snip of information is all," she replied before she opened an email from Ulric. There was a huge code written down that she didn't understand. She only knew that it was called the Therian Code, and that Moriarty wanted it. She confirmed with Ulric that the only damage it would do is give unlimited access of information to the user. It was a terrible thing to give away especially to a madman, but at least it wasn't nuclear codes, or anything like that. She copy and pasted it before she sent it to an email Moriarty had texted to her while they were in the cab.

"Where did you get it?" John asked her.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock said finally speaking. He had been silent for a while unbeknownst to John and Jen. He had gone into his mind palace to figure out exactly what Jen had done to get something Moriarty wanted. He came to one logical conclusion. "You used to be an employment of the government, but you claimed you quit. You didn't quit. You didn't just leave; yoe defected, but you needed to lie low, so you found yourself the one place those wouldn't look: a criminal organization. The one headed by your flat mate, Damon O'Hera. Over time, you've gained information and eventually, you gained something useful, and that something useful is what you gave Moriarty."

"That's a very good deduction, Mr. Holmes," she said, and he looked smug about it before she basically pushed him to the ground. "Too bad nearly all of it is wrong. No, I got this from an old… let's call him a coworker. He's a computer genius." Sherlock's smug look fell, and he looked away from her like she had intentionally irritated him, and she did just a little. "I'm no good with technology." She closed out of her email giving the computer back to John. She stood straightening her skirt before she went to grab a pencil off the desk followed by several sheets of paper. She sat down at the round table sitting in the corner of the flat away from the window. She began to draw frantically on the paper; she needed to do something. She was getting antsy.

"Why can't he deduce you?" John asked Jen. She frowned as a light, frantic hand scribbled on the paper.

"There are more like me out there," she told him, "people who can only be seen when they want to be seen. Even the best observers and deductionists in the world cannot tell I'm me unless I want them to even if I'm standing right in front of them. For some of us, it's because we have too many different sides to our personality that they can't pick out which is really us. For me and others, it's that we've lived a lie so long, that we aren't really sure who we are. We can reinvent ourselves and hide anything we want because we hide it even from ourselves."

"How many are there like you?"

"At most? Fifty. At the least? Twenty. We are few and far between," she said trying to drop the subject, and it was successful. John eventually left to sleep leaving Sherlock and Jen alone together. She wondered when he would head to bed, but she suspected if he went to bed at all it would not be anytime soon. It wasn't going to be anytime soon.

* * *

A/N: Might get another chapter sometime between now and Tuesday. Haven't decided yet, but I'm off, so I'll have time to spare. Anyway, just a chapter of reaction to what happened at the pool. But now we have Jen and Sherlock alone. Oh, much to talk about. And slowly, very slowly, we are starting to find out what exactly happened between Sherlock and Jen. I would say you'll find out soon, but I would be lying.

One more note: yes, it's very typical for OCs to rent 221C, but really, I'm not going to lie it's incredibly convenient. So bare with the thought, and don't cringe too much. Thanks to my usual reviewers TragicBlossoms and SemiraBlake, and a new reviewer: hannahhobnob! Hope you enjoyed! I'll see you soon! Review please! ~Luna


	14. Information of the Sensitive Kind

"Do you mind if I smoke?" she asked him with a sigh breaking the silence that had lasted for the last two hours. Neither really knew what to say to each other. Sherlock was having a hard time understanding her, and Jen wasn't exactly sure how it came to this: her, alone, in the same room with Sherlock Holmes, and she wasn't trying to strangle him. All in all, it was rather odd.

"Please do," he replied allowing her to pull her cigarettes from her pocket followed by a familiar zippo lighter that looked as though it had gone to hell and back again. She lit her cigarette as she leaned back and smoked. She didn't often smoke, but if any day she deserved it, it was today. "What does it mean?" he asked her suddenly an hour later after she had smoke half a dozen cigarettes and drawn at least a dozen pictures so fast that it was hard to follow her hand. He, meanwhile, had been leafing through his mind palace again. She had a room there, a room he previously only kept to remind him that he still owed her a debt. However, it was slowly growing size over the weeks much to his irritation. There was question he just couldn't answer no matter what information he had.

"What does what mean?" she asked him putting a picture aside as she started another. She stub out her cigarette knowing she really shouldn't smoke that much.

"Never wandered in the shadows, James. That's where the wolves roam," he repeated what she had said early to Jim Moriarty. She paused for a second as Sherlock explained what he knew. "It's obviously code. He knew right away what it meant. How do you know him? You seemed rather-"

"I have no history with him," she assured him. "I met him when you met him in Bart's, but I recognized he was a 1-1 psychopath right away. Stopped him on the lift, and he dropped the act. I deduced it based on what I've previously heard about Jim Moriarty."

"You've heard about Moriarty before," he muttered. "You said he assisted in the destruction of your life."

"He did," Jen confirmed. "He created the woman who would eventually lead to my life being in shambles, but I had never met him not until Bart's." He was still unsure what she had meant and how she had known about Jim. It wasn't right. She did say he was partially right.

"You were part of a criminal organization," he said sure of this fact. At least, she was part of a sort of criminal organization.

"No. Try again. We can play twenty questions," she told him continuing to sketch her picture. He jumped up and sat across from her at the table. He looked at the first picture. It was the scene she had entered upon at the pool. Sherlock was pointing a gun at the bomb jacket while John had a sniper aimed at him. Moriarty stood on the other side of the jacket. She was currently sketching Jim. They were rather lifelike though it didn't surprise Sherlock. She was always rather good when it came to art.

"You were part of an organization."

"Yes."

"A government organization."

"No."

"You left the government to go to this organization."

"There are two questions there. Split them apart. The first is yes, and the second no."

"You were in the government and you left, but the organization… didn't exist. You formed the organization."

"Co-founder," she corrected. "Yes."

"You were in a terrorist cell."

"No."

"You faked your death to get out." Jen paused.

"How do you know I faked my death?" she asked him with a frown. It was true. About three years ago, she faked her death to hide. She had laid low, but never changed her name. After all, who would be stupid enough to keep their name after faking their death?

"Information of your death reached my ears three years ago," he told her. "It was reliable information, and I was surprised to find it false." She stared at him suspicious on why that particular piece of information had reached him but said nothing.

"No, I didn't fake my death to get out," she told him.

"You faked your death to fool your enemies."

"Rewrite that statement. It's not completely accurate." Sherlock paused to think about what he knew about her to rewrite his statement.

"You faked your own death, because you lost someone and wanted to go back to living a normal life."

"Yes."

"You have a lot of enemies."

"Yes."

"You've had assassination attempts against you."

"Yes."

"You've been in bombings."

"Yes."

"You called in a favor from a member of this organization to get the information you needed for Moriarty."

"Yes." He pushed his hands together and placed his hands under his chin to think. What did he know about her? What did she just tell him? He could figure her out; it would just take him more time than it usually would.

"So, you as well as other employees of the government went rouge."

"No." He could feel himself twitch. It shouldn't be this hard to deduce this organization she was in. Then, he had a thought.

"It was the only organization of its kind."

"Yes," she said meaning that Sherlock would likely not guess what sort of organization this was. He had to move to a different deduction to figure this out.

"You had any information on you rewritten."

"Yes."

"The code you relayed to Moriarty told him you were part of this organization."

"Yes."

"You fear he will let it get out that you are part of this organization putting you in danger."

"Yes."

"Although part of you is terrified of entering that life again, you've never been more ecstatic about it. You were starting to get bored." She paused and looked up at him through her dark, thick eyelashes. A smirk fell on her face.

"I've been in an office too long. I crave being shot at," she told him, and he could help but smile at the reply. How alike they were, and yet, how very different.

"I could shoot at you if that's what you want," he told her. It was a joking remark for once. Perhaps a few days ago, it would have been a serious threat, but something had shifted. Jen made her motives clear. She had no intention of harming in but helping him. Jen saved his life again that night, and he couldn't deny that.

"I'll consider it," she remarked with a laugh before she lit another cigarette. "Want one?"

"I'm supposed to be quitting."

"John's asleep," she told him holding out a cigarette for him, and he took it before she lit the cigarette. She finished her picture of Moriarty before she moved onto a new drawing. They were silent as he watched her frantic hand move across the paper. The room was filling with smoke from the cigarettes.

"Where did you go after you left school?" he asked her.

"I was around," she muttered leaning on her hand as she smoked her cigarette with the other one. She looked down at the drawing. "Didn't leave the country until I was 25."

"You went back home," he said.

"I did," she told him.

"You were trying to fix a family problem. Did you?"

"The family problem… died," she told him her eyes darting to the table. There was a heaviness in the way she spot this, but it didn't seem to affect Sherlock. It simply allowed him to see more information.

"Ah, an ailing family member. That's what was causing you grief," he remarked.

"Partly," she told him taking a deep drag. "How long have you been clean?"

"Why?"

"Curious."

"Seven years," he told her. "And you've been clean… since you left school." She shrugged taking another drag.

"I'm not that way around family," she told him. "If I'm with family, I'm clean… and boring." She paused for a moment. "Your brother… Is he always so smug?"

"You know Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. He wasn't aware that Mycroft knew Jen, but looking back, Sherlock recalled Mycroft showing signs of recognition when he had mentioned her. He wondered how how well they actually knew each other.

"I've had many dealing with him," she told him. "I was curious if he's just always such a pompous know-all."

"More so usually, I'm sure."

"I'm sorry you have to deal with him," she told him. "I have an older brother who's the same way. Hell, he's probably worse."

"Worse? When I was twenty, Mycroft called the police on me to have me arrested for drug possession."

"Oh, yeah," she smirked, "when I was eighteen, my brother tried to marry me off to one of his associates, who was thirty years older than me."

"Mycroft has this whole place covered surveillance," Sherlock told her.

"Robbie once traded me to a drug dealer to make a point."

"Mycroft kidnaps anyone who's around me for more than a day."

"Yeah, that's pretty bad," she said with a nod. "Did you make it hell for him like I did for Robbie?"

"Of course," Sherlock told her as if it was obvious.

"Bet I was worse," she said with a grin as she lit another cigarette and gave Sherlock another.

"Doubtful," Sherlock replied lighting his cigarette.

"I pretended to be possessed by a demon when I met his fiancé," she told Sherlock.

"I deduced one of Mycroft's most powerful allies into confessing he was sleeping with his running mate's wife."

"Oh damn," she said shaking her head. "I had sex with his supposed 'rival' on his desk," she told him.

"I once ran through Mycroft's dinner party completely strung out-"

"That's not bad," she said with a shrug before he finished.

"And naked." Jen nearly fell out her chair laughing.

"Okay, okay, that's pretty bad, but I blew up the manor-"

"Did it on a weekly basis," he replied.

"On Christmas day, when his in-laws were visiting, and I told them I should have been watching the meth lab." Sherlock was laughing now. "Beat that." They swapped stories back and forth about how they tortured their siblings for a good while before the room fell silent, and Jen went back to drawing but paused and looked up at him after an hour. Something had been bothering her.

"I guess… I haven't been exactly nice to you, because… I'm not used to needing help, but you helped me when I needed it. It made me feel weak, and I didn't want to be. I think you of all people should understand that."

"I do," he replied looking at her. They were both trying to convey a thank you neither wished to speak. Both were too proud for that, and both knew it would help them much anyway.

"I'll try to be better, but I make no promises," she told him going back to her drawing. They fell into silence again. Sherlock stayed up the whole night with her, and she didn't question it. She assumed it had something to do with her being in the house, and it wasn't as if he slept often anyway. "Want some tea?" she asked as the clock struck eight in the morning.

"Yes," he replied thinking on something. He had been thinking all night, and Jen had noticed when he closed his eyes he would mutter to himself to think. "Do you still sing?" he asked her suddenly. "I know you still draw, so I assume you paint as well. Do you still sing?"

"Not often," she told him from the kitchen. "I own a piano… or I owed one, I should say. I play, but I don't often sing anymore."

"That's a shame," he muttered.

"What?" she asked not hearing him.

"I said are you going to buy a new one? Piano."

"I have one in storage," she told him. "It was… my mother's…"

"She died when you were young," he said noting the sadness in her voice.

"No," she replied simply.

"No?" he asked. Jen paused for a moment. She didn't often talk about her family life, but she supposed there was enough mystery surrounding her that she could tell him. She finished making the tea before coming back and sitting in front of him again.

"My mother left when I was eight," she told him. She frowned at the thought. Her childhood wasn't one she often liked to talk about. It was complicated, and she didn't need pity for her supposed sap story.

"Your father was the problem," he said. She nodded.

"He sort of… stopped trying when my mother left. He was brilliant though, my father… he was chemist… blew up the house a lot," she laughed a little as she looked down at her cup. The same heaviness as before came over her. "He medicated his schizophrenia with alcohol, and sometimes he would go into these fits. Eventually, it caught up with him, and… he fell ill. Around that time, Robbie, who had abandoned us the minute he turned eighteen, took me from him and put me in a boarding school. He said he recognized my potential, but how could I leave my little sister and brother behind? I don't abandon family, so I ran back over and over again. Until one night, my sister left us behind, and my father died leaving just me."

"What about your younger brother?" he asked her. Her frown deepened.

"That's… that's another story."

"So that's why then? You sacrificed what you could have been for your family. What wasted potential." She actually chuckled at his remark telling him she could not agree more. He figured that it was because they just left her in the end.

"Wanna hear the worse part? He wasn't even my father," she told him. "I never knew my biological dad. The four of us all had different fathers, at least, that's what it looks like. Robbie was the only actually child of my father. Mum… she got around." She looked down at her mug gently swirling it. It took Sherlock a bit of time to realize she had told him something rather personal, and she wouldn't tell just anyone. There was a knock on the door frame making Jen jump. A gangly girl with plain brown hair and large glasses was standing there holding a white dress and black blazer in plastic. "Ah, Myra," Jen said smiling as she stood to greet the girl.

"Hello, Lupa," she smiled. "Damon will be up in a minute. He's making a conference call. He asked me to give these to you." She held out the clothes, and Jen took them.

"Ugh, it's white," she said distastefully.

"Damon likes you in white as does Peter and Missy," Myra smiled.

"Bathroom?" she asked Sherlock.

"Through the kitchen on the left," Sherlock told her.

"Thank you," she said leaving to put on her new clothes.

"Who's Peter and Missy?" Sherlock asked Myra quickly. He didn't have a lot of time to question this girl before Jen got back.

"Missy is Damon's little sister, and Peter is Lupa- er, Jen's little brother."

"And she's seeing them today?" Sherlock asked. Myra nodded.

"Damon and Jen visit them every Sunday."

"Visit where?"

"Rampton," she told him.

"The psychiatric hospital?"

"Yes," Myra nodded. "Missy was put there when she stabbed her nanny, and Peter is there for-"

"I think it's too short," Jen said coming from the bathroom.

"It's lovely," Myra said looking at Jen in the simple white dress with a black tie around her waist that was matched by the black blazer.

"Thanks, Myra," she smiled putting her usual black knee high boots on.

"Have everything then?" Myra asked her.

"Um," she muttered looking around with a frown. "I'm missing something. What am I missing? I'm missing something. What am I…" she drifted off thinking about what she was missing, and she started panicking. Her breathing became ragged. "No, no, no, no, no," she muttered pulling at her hair.

"Lupa, are you-" But she was cut off when Jen had put her head between her knees and started screaming bloody murder. Myra ran to the door frame. "Damon! Jen's having a fit!" Myra had to duck out of the way of Jen throwing a vase at her. It shattered against the door.

"What's wrong!? What's happening?!" John yelled practically tumbling down the stairs to see Jen throwing everything she could get her hands on. She was a terrifying sight.

"Ginny, please calm down," Myra said evenly trying not to sound panicked as she waited for her employer. She tried to use the nickname he often did when one of her fits came about.

"Calm down! I'm not going to fucking calm down, Myra!" she spat. She threw a lamp across the room. "It's burned! It's fucking burned! I'll fucking burn the place to the ground!" She threw a chair into the window shattering it. Damon came sprinting up the stairs.

"Oh, thank god," Myra muttered. "She just started freaking out I didn't-"

"Myra, shut up," Damon said looking at Jen. Jen threw a rather pricey tea set at Damon's head causing him to duck.

"Fuck off!"

"Jen," John started, but none of it would help, and Damon knew that by now.

"Shut up! Everyone just shut up!" Damon shouted. He sighed taking off the jacket to his suit. "It's going to be this kind of day," he muttered tossing Myra the jacket before rolling up his sleeves. "Okay, fine." He tackling her to the ground, and she started screaming obscenities at him kicking and screaming, but he cradled her body keeping her from escaping. "Ginny, calm down!"

"Fuck off!" she shouted struggling against him.

"Do you want to end up in an institution!?"

"Fuck off!" she told him again kicking him, but it was like he didn't notice.

"Well, do you!?" he shouted at her.

"NO!" she shouted trying to throw him off her.

"Then you need to calm down and tell me what's wrong!" he shouted now pining her to the ground while still cradling her against him. She had started crying now, and it was hard to place which was more prominent the pain or the anger.

"Let me go!" she shouted nearly twisting away from him, but he had years of practice with her.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong," he told her. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"Angry!" she shouted kneeing him in the stomach, but he didn't give.

"No! No you're not! Tell me really!"

"Hurt!" she shouted using her nails as her last defense.

"Why?! Tell me what's wrong!"

"Her book!" she shouted as pain reigned over her. Her struggling stopped, and she was sobbing now. "My mother's book," she told him through her tears. "It's gone in the fire. It's gone… it's gone. Mama's book…"

"Ginny, I have your mother's book," he told her calmly. "It's in the car."

"Liar!" she shouted starting to put up a fight again.

"Myra, it's lying on the seat," he panted struggling against the small girl. She knew how to put up a fight. Myra ran off to get it for him. She came back second later. "See? See," he said turning her head to show that Myra had it. Damon nearly let her stand to look at it, but he kept her cradled fearing she would become violent again. Myra held it out, and Jen took it. It was an old book with the words: _Histoires ou contes du temps passé, avec dez Moralitez_ written across the top, though it was hard to read as it had been damaged in the explosion.

"It's ruined," she muttered touching the scorched corners. There was a sadness in her voice that could break hearts.

"It's not," Damon told her. "Just a little more worn. You can still read it, see?" he said opening the book to show her that you could in fact still read it. He shut it. "Listen to me, Ginny. You can't throw tantrums like this in other people's homes. You do understand that, don't you?" She didn't answer. "Don't you!?"

"Yes, but… but… I thought I lost it," she told him as if that should have made it all better. She had broken a lot of their cups, all of their lamps, the window, any mirrors in the room, and was working on tearing all the books from the bookshelves off before Damon had stopped her.

"I know, but it's safe," he told her kissing her temple. He held her like that a little longer before he looked down at the girl who was putting back up the walls. "Can I let you go?"

"Yes," she muttered.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said again, and he let her go allowing her to stand, and he followed handing her the handkerchief in his pocket to dry her tears.

"Okay, good," he said happily. "Now," he said spinning her to face Sherlock, who had watched the whole thing with interest and not fear. He was honestly not that surprised over her fit. He had seen her throw one during school. Broke several lights, a couple windows, and landed a few kids in the infirmary. She had gotten a little better, he mused. "Apologize to Mr. Holmes for breaking his things." She gave Damon a face.

"I'm not apologizing to _him_," she told him.

"Yes, you are or we are not leaving," he told her like the parent he sometimes had to be for her. She stood there with her arms crossed glaring at him. "Peter's waiting," Damon reminded her. She sighed.

"Fine," she muttered. "I'm sorry… I broke your things. I'll pay for them."

"Good," Damon said. "Now, Doctor Watson." Damon spun Jen around to face John, who was in utter shock of what just happened.

"I'm sorry. I broke your things… and that you had to see that. I'll pay you for the stuff I broke," she told him. She kicked the ground lightly with the tip of her foot. She looked like a child being caught by her parents, and in a way, she was.

"Great, we can go now," Damon sighed. Damon picked up Jen's red jacket from the chair and held it out so she could put it on. She looked ashamed at what had just happened. Sherlock watched her. The girl who so often put up walls had slipped in front of them, and she was devastated. Those around her weren't supposed to see that side.

"You've gotten better," Sherlock commented. Her eyes met his.

"Wh-what?" she murmured ever so quietly.

"Your temper's improved," he told her. "You didn't even hurt someone except a few bruises on Mr. O'Hera. Last time I saw you throw a temper like that you put four students in the hospital. You've improved."

"Maybe… maybe a little," she mumbled with a slight smile before she turned about way and Damon guided Jen out of the room, who was looking a little more like Jen and less like a small child.

John waited for the sound of the door closing sounded in the room telling him they left before he turned his attention to Sherlock, who seemed to be thinking.

"You were trying to comfort her," John told him.

"Hm?" Sherlock asked finally acknowledging John. "What was that?"

"You were trying to comfort her for feeling ashamed at what she had done," John told him.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock replied standing up to go to the kitchen and avoid John's accusations.

"Why is it such a bad thing that you might actually care a little for Jen?" John asked him entering the kitchen. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I do not care for Ginny," Sherlock told him. "I owe her a debt, and that's all." Irritated, Sherlock slipped a slide in his microscope a little too hard before he went to adjust the view. "Get me a case," Sherlock demanded of his flat mate.

"Why do you owe her a debt?" John asked. "You mentioned she saved your life. How?"

"It's not important, John," Sherlock informed him.

"You worry about her, don't you?" John asked surprisingly proud of his friends for his social improvement. Sherlock sighed. The man would not let it go, so Sherlock would have to set him straight.

"The whole story will be saved for another time, but it was Ginny that eventually lead me to choose a life of a consulting detective. We've had three interactions. One time, she saved my life, the other was a talk that changed my life, and the last I saved her life, but I was still in her debt in the end. To answer your question John, I am worried she will die before I have the opportunity to make the score even between us. I have never owed anyone, anything in my life expect for her. I owe her, and for years, I've kept a particular room in my mind palace just for her: to remind myself every once in a while, I still owe the insignificant woman. I will not let her die before it is settled."

"She doesn't seem to want anything for you," John reminded him.

"Oh, and doesn't that just make it worse?" he spat making John sigh before he left Sherlock in the kitchen as he checked on his experiments and mulled on what Jen had and hadn't told him.

* * *

A/N: Much information in this chapter! I wanted to take this minute to mention BPD. I knew someone who had it, and let me tell you it is extremely unpleasant. Now, the person I knew had mild-moderate BPD, Jen has severe BPD hence the fits. It's a bit like bipolar disorder, but there are other factors involved. It's a serious personality disorder that left unchecked and do some serious damage and land someone in a mental health facility. If anyone has every seen Girl, Interrupted. The main character has BPD. Anyway! Thanks to reviewer hannahhobnob! And hope you all enjoyed! See you Saturday! Review please!


	15. Visitors

Damon and Jen sat down at a table in Rampton Secure Hospital with two guards standing at the door. Myra had gone off as she always did when they were here; she didn't like the whiteness of the room and how blank it seemed. Jen and Damon were checked when they went in, and they would be checked when they left. They were both forced to remove their shoes, belts, jewelry, and anything else that posed a 'threat.'The guards allowed two patients in making Damon and Jen stand.

The patients were both in spotless, white uniforms. The first was a rather pretty girl in her early twenties. She had a nervous twitch in her right hand, and her face held a charming, rather persuasive smile on her face. She had Damon's sandy hair, but she had the brightest blue eyes. As soon as she was in the room, she threw herself at Damon, who laughed. The second was a boy just a few years older than the girl. He had the same dark, stormy eyes that Jen did, but his hair was straight and was just a few shades lighter than hers. He was tall and gangly. He grinned at Jen before he hugged her tight.

"Jenma," he muttered into her hair calling her a pet name he often did when he was younger. Jen and Mama together as she took care of him as he grew, and he simply wouldn't forget that.

"Hello, Peter," she smiled kissing his cheek. "How are you?" She had missed him; she always missed him, but he had to be here. She knew that even if it pained her.

"I'm good," he smiled wearily meaning he was as good as a man in his situation could be. "How are you?" She didn't get to answer as Damon answered for her.

"Why don't you tell Peter how you slapped a high class psychopath across the face?" Damon asked Jen sharply making Jen's smile fall. How did he know everything that happened in her life?

"You know?" she asked flatly expecting some sort of shouting at her for it, but he seemed very calm about the whole thing.

"I have contacts all over the city, Lupa. Of course, I know," he remarked. "You should stay away from that man and not provoke him. You just got out of war. Don't go back in,"

"Oh, I hate you," she growled.

"You mean like how you hate Sherlock Holmes?" Damon asked cheekily.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he said sitting down with his sister next to him. Jen huffed.

"See how he is?" she asked Peter. "Unbearable." Peter laughed and kissed the top of his sister's head before she sat down with him across from him. Damon raised his hands at the guards, who left them alone. Ah, the joys of having a rich, high class criminal at your disposal.

"So what about slapping a high class psychopath across the face?" Peter asked her wearily. He worried about his sister.

"James Moriarty," she told him. "He blew up my flat, so I slapped him across the face. He deserved it."

"Sometimes I wonder if you have death wish," Peter said distastefully.

"You have no idea," Damon muttered.

"I don't have a death wish," she whined. "I just was playing a game."

"A game you shouldn't be part of," Damon told her slamming his hand on the table. "It's too dangerous, Jen. You were doing so well; don't go back now." Jen sighed.

"You don't control my life," she snapped. She didn't know why he was making such a fret about this. She had dealt with other criminals like Moriarty before, and he never panicked. He always trusted her. There was silence as the two stared at each other.

"Your flat was blown up?" Missy asked suddenly with her eyes as wide as saucers. She was breaking the silence for them, giving them an out from their argument.

"I've found a new flat, but it's going to be renovated," Jen sighed, "and Damon has to agree…"

"What flat?" Damon asked suspiciously. She paused a moment. She wondered how he would take it as he was already upset and a tad disappointed with her already.

"221C Baker Street," she told him simply, and of course, he threw a fit as she thought he would.

"Fucking hell, Lupa! Why don't you just call Scotland Yard on me!?"

"He doesn't care, Damon!" Jen shouted understanding why he was angry this time. "You aren't interesting enough for him to care!" Harsh but true. Sherlock wasn't interested in breaking up criminal rings. He was just in it for the thrill of the chase. There was no chase if the enemy lived right below you.

"Why would you even want it!? You've been claiming you hate Sherlock Holmes!" It was Damon's turn to be confused, and she didn't blame him. She was confused with her own motives, and she didn't feel like sorting them out.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Peter asked suddenly sitting up straight. She wondered if he heard the name before but dismissed it. She could have mentioned Sherlock's name plenty of times.

"Yes, he was an old classmate of mine," she told him absently before turning to Damon, "and I want the flat, because according to John, Sherlock shoots off a gun in the middle of the night without even waking their landlady. I could be as loud as I want without concern that my neighbors will get mad at me."

"He shoots off a gun in the middle of the night?" Missy asked. She was protective of her brother despite being the younger sibling.

"He's insane," Damon told her knowing no one would take care to calling him insane.

"He's not insane," Jen told him defensively. "He's just… always wired; it's part of being as clever as he his. Look, we'll talk about this later. Can we just talk about something else? Peter, my favorite brother! How are you? You're looking slim."

"They're talking about releasing me," Peter told her. She paled before her face turned stern. She loved her brother and missed him dearly, but this was not right.

"You weren't supposed to even get a chance at probation for twenty five years," she replied.

"They said… I've improved," he told her. She shut her eyes and leaned back putting her finger on her nose as she thought. "I thought you would be happy." He stared at her with those dark, blank eyes. She often looked at people with those eyes when she didn't want them to read her. He had inherited that trait.

"I'm not sure what I am, Peter," she told him pulling her hand from her face as she looked at him. "Do you think you've improved?" she asked him. "Or do you just want to be out?"

"I've think I've gotten better," he told her seriously. "I'm more stable than I've ever been."

"It's never been about being stable," she sighed. He didn't understand that stability could easily be shattered, and then what? "What do you feel, Peter? Do you feel remorse for what you did?" He was quiet as he looked down at his hands.

"I feel remorse that I hurt you," he muttered. She shook her head before she sighed and put her hand on his.

"We'll see what the probationary hearing says," she told him. "If they release you, you can stay with Damon and I and visit Missy on Sundays with us until she's released."

"I'll never be released," the girl said airily. "I should be in here. I'm mentally ill." Missy was breaking Damon's heart but all he could do was put a comforting hand on her shoulder. At least, she understood that she should be here. If anything, it was a sign she was getting better than Peter.

The four continued to talk though Jen's mind was starting to wander. She read a story from her book in perfect French, as was tradition, and by the time she left the institution, she was emotionally and mentally exhausted.

"Will you look at the flat with me?" she asked Damon as they sat in the car on the ride home. She asked, but he knew he couldn't say no. She was tired, and she need something to keep her mind busy.

"Myra?" he questioned his assistant, who sat next to him. "Do I have anything planned?"

"No, Damon. You asked me to make sure of that," she told him. She sounded irked as she always did when he forgot something.

"Right, then, I'll be looking at the flat with you," he assured Jen. "We'll see the damage this is going to cost me."

"Calm down, I'll pay for half," she told him with a sigh. It wasn't the money that was annoying him. He was always slightly on edge after he saw his sister. She was his rock, and he missed her as bad as Jen missed Peter.

"Mm," he replied simply looking at the window. The rest of the ride was nearly silent.

* * *

When the two entered 221 Baker Street, they were met with an elderly woman at the door. She had such a lovely smile and a kind way about her that Jen felt right at home.

"Oh, hello, here for the boys?" she asked. She was holding a tea tray as if she was about to go up and give it to them. Jen wondered if she also acted as their housekeeper even if by accident.

"Oh, um, no not really," Jen started, but Damon interrupted her.

"Allow me to carry the tray for you, mum," Damon said flashing a smile as he took the tray, and they all started up the stairs. Oh, always the charmer, he was. It actually made things a lot easier considering his record.

"It's so nice to see polite youth these days," she remarked. "I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady."

"I'm Jen and this is Damon. We're acquaintances of Mr. Holmes and John," Jen explained. "Though we aren't here particularly to see them. Mr. Holmes mentioned you had a basement flat."

"Oh, it's very damp, dear," she told Jen. Jen shook her head.

"Uh, yes, I've heard, but I'm willing to do a free renovation on the place. I would probably end up changing everything about it anyways," she told Mrs. Hudson. "It's rather inconvenient having to sleep on Mr. Holmes's couch."

"His couch?" Mrs. Hudson said shocked. Jen wondered is she was shocked because she was sleeping their without the landlady's knowledge, or that one of the boys weren't generous enough to give up their bed for her, not that she would have accepted.

"Yes," Jen told her. "I'm in a bit of danger, and John and Sherlock are something of my uh… witness protection."

"If you wish to renovate it, I'll be happy to show you it," Mrs. Hudson said as they reached the landing and walked into 221B. Sherlock had a scattered amount of papers on his desk. He seemed to have picked up a new case. John was flipping through a book rather frantically. "Tea, boys," Mrs. Hudson said with a smile. Damon set it on the table.

"Thank you," John said, but Sherlock ignored her.

"I was just about to show your friends the basement flat," she explained to them happily.

"They aren't friends," Sherlock said not bothering to look up. He recognized Jen's dainty steps on the stairs.

"Yes, they are," John said before he looked to Jen and Damon. "Ignore him. He's in one of his moods."

"How's the trip to Rampton?" Sherlock asked still not looking up. He was being a rude know-all for the sake of it.

"Myra needs to keep her mouth shut," Damon remarked sounding irritated that his assistant just goes around blabbing about his sister.

"You love her," Jen said absently.

"I don't," he defended. She looked at him and rolled her eyes. Five years Myra had been Damon's assistant, and for two years, Jen had realized that Damon was in love with her. However, she wasn't the stereotypical bimbo Damon was usually with causing him to deny anything he felt for her. What was it with the male populace that made them have the need to date stupid, easy women? Was the want to breed really so bad they'll take anything?

"Whatever," she replied. "Mrs. Hudson." She gestured for the woman to go down the stairs first. They followed before the hit the door to 221C just passed the stairs to John and Sherlock's flat.

"I think I would knock out the wall," Jen commented already picturing what she wanted it to look like. "Extend it to an open stairway in the opposite direction as the stairs going upstairs."

"Agreed," Damon said as Mrs. Hudson came from her flat with the key. They wandered through and Damon and her gave faces clearly showing the dislike of the place.

"I know it's not the best," Mrs. Hudson started to prattle on. There was no need for that really.

"Oh, it's perfect," Damon told her.

"It's like starting from zero," Jen said wandering the sitting room.

"Jen is very particular when it comes to flats," Damon explained. "Having one in poor condition just means she can what she wants to it…. She can, can't she?"

"Oh, of course," Mrs. Hudson assured her.

"Great," Jen said happily. "I'll have the construction start tomorrow."

* * *

"What is that God awful distraction!?" Sherlock shouted at the noise coming from the ground floor. He was trying to work a case, but he couldn't even hear himself think with the sound of drills and hammers coming from downstairs.

"That would be the construction, Sherlock," John told him. "Jen warned you about it, but you didn't listen."

"Where is she!?" he shouted pacing around frantically.

"At work," John reminded him for the tenth time. He sighed. Sherlock had been like this all morning. He had been blaming Jen for the littlest things that day from not having a case to getting a rubbish case to not being able to solve the case even though they had yet to see her that morning. She was gone before the workers had even gotten there. Damon had stayed in Myra's flat that night much to Jen's amusement. "She won't be back until much later. She mentioned going shopping with Molly after work since all her clothes were destroyed in the fire." Sherlock scoffed at John.

"How am I supposed to work when she's being so distracting!?" Sherlock asked him gesturing to the direction of the noise.

"She's not being distracting," John sighed. "The construction workers are, and you were the one who said that she could renovate." Sherlock pouted before he fell onto the couch facing away from John. John sighed. It was going to one of those days.

* * *

"Jen," Jamie's voice rang on her intercom making Jen look up briefly at the intercom before looking back to the file in front of her. She vaguely wondered why she was bothering her, but realized, she really didn't care. She was getting a bit edge just sitting their with files and paperwork.

"What?" she replied as she continued making notes on one of her client's file.

"There's a man here to see you," Jamie replied making Jen frown. Her clients weren't allowed in the office after seven, and it was now 8:30. Jamie was about to go home. There were a couple of people she knew would come visit her at this hour, and none of the options were pleasant. "I know you don't take clients this late, but he's very insistent." Jen sighed. She supposed if she said no the man would just barge into her office once Jamie wasn't manning the door.

"Let him," she replied, and just a second later, a man with an umbrella walked in. She didn't look up; she didn't need to. She knew the sound of his steps with his umbrella occasionally clinking on the floor every few steps as it were a cane. "We've discussed this, Mr. Holmes. I don't like you in place of work anymore than you like me in yours." She was straight to the point; she wasn't in the mood.

"This isn't business, Doctor Lorraine," he replied as Mycroft Holmes sat down in the chair in front of her desk. Her eyes flickered up to Mycroft before they fell back on her papers. She didn't like Mycroft, and he didn't like her, but it wasn't in the same manner she disliked Sherlock. She disliked Mycroft's manipulative ways, and he often manipulated her to the point where one particular day four years ago, she threw him out a window. She was incarcerated for a month for that, and yet, he edge around her sometimes as if she would suddenly turn into a monster. At the same time, he was sometimes stupendously helpful.

"Then what is it?" she asked bored.

"What are you doing with Sherlock?" Straight to the point as he always was with her.

"Mostly annoying him and picturing his death quite vividly," she replied simply, "but to be frank, it's none of your business."

"He's my brother."

"He wants no assistance from you," she told him with a sigh as she closed her folder and looked at him. "I thought we agreed that when I came back to London you'd stay out of my business, and I would stay out of yours. I appreciate everything you did for me, but that doesn't mean shit."

"Sherlock is my business," he told her. "I'm concerned you'll drag him into your war."

"My war?" she questioned. "Mr. Holmes, I have not been at war with anyone since I faked my death."

"Thanks to me," he reminded her. She rolled her eyes. "And perhaps you are not as safe as you think, Doctor Lorraine."

"What's that mean?"

"Jim Moriarty," he told her. "What do you know of him?"

"Nothing," she assured him. "All I know is he's a psychopath, and Ursa happened to know him."

"Ursa," he muttered the word as he mulled it over. Ursa was their common enemy. She didn't want to talk to him, not today.

"What do you want?" she asked with a sigh. Really, he wasn't here to catch up.

"I want you to know what Sherlock is doing."

"I'm not spying on your brother, Mycroft," she said sternly. She knew what it was like having an overbearing brother. It wasn't fun, and she knew it was just Mycroft's way of trying to care for Sherlock, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of babying Sherlock.

"Call it favor," he told her.

"I've done you enough favors," she hissed. "You want to know what your brother is up to, then why don't you just ask him?"

"You know he wouldn't cooperate," Mycroft told her, and she knew he was right, but that gave no excuse.

"That's not my problem," she informed him as she leaned back in her chair. "He's an adult; he can do what he wants."

"He's barely an adult," Mycroft informed her, and she knew that to be true as well, but she really wouldn't be inflating his ego any more than it already was. Jen tapped her pen on the desk as she stared at Mycroft.

"Why are you still here?" she asked him. "Did I not make myself clear?"

"I recommend staying away from my brother, Doctor Lorraine," he said making himself as clear as he could. He was concerned, and it was painfully obvious.

"So that obviously means I need to befriend him and spend all available time with him," she told him smugly. Mycroft gave her a rather unpleasant look.

"Need I remind you, you're alive and out of trouble thanks to me?" he asked making her hand twitch. She didn't owe Mycroft anything. The two had the capability to destroy each other but neither did. That wasn't a debt; that was an impasse.

"Need I remind you, I could destroy you with a simple text?" she questioned back. They stared at each other challenging the other. "Get out of my office, Mycroft before you exit via window." She turned her chair to face the window in her office to ignore Mycroft as he stood to leave.

"Be careful. You may just be pulled back in when you just got out," Mycroft told her before he left her alone in her office to think on his words. They would change nothing.

* * *

A/N: So, there's a lot more information in this chapter than you think. A. Jen's brother will not play much of a part in this story but the sequel (yeah they'll be a sequel!) which will not come out obviously for a while and it was important to introduce him at least once. B. Ursa will play something of a shadow in this story but she's... necessary. More talk about who she and how she knows Jim is later. C. Mycroft knowing Jen is fairly significant. D. She defended Sherlock =D YES! Next chapter, will be Jim's whole reaction to Jen. Oh, of course he wouldn't just ignore her. She's interesting! Ah, also update next will be either be thursday or Sunday... or both as I will be going to a music festival Saturday.

Anyway, hope you all enjoyed, and thanks to reviewers: hannahhobnob, SemiraBlake, 252020! Come on followers! Review me! My goal is thirty by the next update! Virtual cookies all around if so!


	16. Nothing as Romantic as a Death Threat

It was another three days before Jen reappeared at 221B Baker Street, and John was exhausted. The construction had been going on day and night for the last three days rendering John unable to get much sleep. Sherlock didn't enjoy the construction, but his normal lack of sleep had allowed him to stay energized despite little sleep.

"Evening," she said happily coming inside the flat. "I brought Chinese." She set it on the table.

"You're in a good mood," John noted. He was slumped down in the chair.

"I am," she muttered. Alright, so she lied. She was anything but fine. The last three days had been rough. She had started having blackouts in the middle of the day; something that had not happened since she moved back to London. The blackouts only lasted a few minutes in London though where the blackouts a few years ago would have her missing hours and sometimes days, but she would pretend everything was alright, perfect in fact. She didn't need people babying her. "What's wrong with you?" she asked John feeling the rather miserable feelings he was having. She admitted at least it was better than how she was feeling.

"The constructions been keeping him up," Sherlock told her as if it was obvious, and she immediately felt guilty.

"Oh, John, I'm sorry," she said with a frown. "I just wanted to get it done as soon as possible. Okay, how about this? I'll pay for you and Sarah to go on vacation. Anywhere you want."

"Really?" he asked her surprised.

"Yeah, I feel bad," she told him with a sigh as she sat on the couch and ate from a Chinese food container. "The construction should be done the day after tomorrow, and the furniture will be moved in as soon as it's done. It would be nice if you stick around to help me move the furniture please?"

"Absolutely," he confirmed with a nod.

"Great, just let me know where; I'll have Jamie arrange everything for the vacation," she told him. Her phone sounded making her sigh before she looked at the text.

**Dinner? xJim **Jen sighed irritated. This was the fifth text she had gotten from Jim Moriarty asking her out to dinner. It was wearing her down. Despite hating Damon's treatment of her the last few days- ridiculously overprotective- he was right. She had just gotten out of war less than five years ago, and she shouldn't be going back in, and Jim Moriarty was exactly the type of man to drag her back in. What was it about her that attracted the psychopaths?

**I'm afraid I'm already having dinner at Baker Street. -Jen **Casual replies. Always casual rejections. She didn't want to anger a man like him if she could help it. Playing the game was exhausting, and she shouldn't have even been playing. The last time she played, it nearly tore her apart; she lost everything.

**Next time then, dear. xJim**

"Who are you texting?" Sherlock asked her getting up to steal her phone from her hand, but she jumped away from him. He didn't need to know; it was none of his business. She could handle Moriarty without Holmes's help; she didn't need him. Frankly, she didn't know why he wanted to know- he was asking just for the sake of annoying her, one of his new favorite past times.

"It's really not your business who I decide to speak with," she informed him.

"You're in my flat; it's my business," he told her taking a step to her. Her objecting just made this all the more fun. Sherlock wanted payback for the last few days of distracting construction work.

"Sherlock, you take another step toward me, and I'll render you unconscious," she told him extending her arm in front of him. He was an inch from her hand. He paused, and then a smug look fell on his face. Confusion swept over her. "What?"

"You called me Sherlock," he told her turning to the food on the table no longer interested in her texting habits. She never called him Sherlock to his face, not once, and he took some sort of misplaced pride in that. It was a sign of familiarity, and he realized that wasn't exactly a good thing, but it was something of a victory, and any victory over Jen was a good thing in his book.

"It was a slip of the tongue," she informed him. "I assure you, it won't happen again."

"I believe it will," Sherlock told her.

"Shut up," she replied heading to the kitchen. Her phone rang from her pocket. This time it was her getting a call. "Hello?" she questioned opening the fridge to look for something to drink. A human hand was sitting upright on a pike. She rolled her eyes; Holmes was certainly theatrical. He could have gotten a separate fridge for experiments, but no, it had to be in the fridge where the food is stored.

"J-Jen…?" a voice stuttered on the other line sounding terrified.

"Oh, Carrie, what's wrong?" she asked the younger girl.

"I-I-I," the girl started sobbing, and Jen shut the door to the fridge to give her client her undivided attention. Carrie was her favorite client, and the girl was always calm and orderly.

"Sweetheart, calm down. I can't understand you."

"J-Jen… c-c-can I see… can I see you?"

"Of course you can," she replied trying to lift the girl's mood. "I'm at a friend's right now. Can it wait until I get to my office?" Carrie started crying louder making it clear, it needed to be now.

"Okay, okay, sweetheart. I get it. I'm at 221B Baker Street. I'll wait for you outside."

"Th-thank you, J-Jen," she whimpered before she hung up the phone. She sighed and entered the sitting room.

"Listen you two," she said looking to John and Sherlock. "One of my patients is currently have some sort of nervous breakdown. She's coming here now. Sherlock if you even try deducing her, I'm going to slap you so hard you won't remember your own name. John, I trust you to be sensitive. Don't disappoint me." She grabbed her purse and ran down the stairs. She stood outside waiting Carrie.

Carrie stumbled into view. She was covered in blood. She collapsed into Jen, who was staring at her with an expression of terror and shock.

"Sherlock! John!" she shouted hoping they would hear her outside. "Sherlock! John!" she shouted again. She waited for Sherlock and John to find her cradling the girl in her arms.

* * *

Jen watched Carrie nervously, who was unconscious on the couch. She was scared at what had happened and what may happen. Carrie needed to wake up now. She needed to know what was happening.

"Ginny," Sherlock said catching her attention as he paced back and forth. She looked at him wearily. She didn't want to deal with him right now. "What was wrong with her?" he asked her.

"She had a mild case of social anxiety," she told him. "There was nothing else wrong with her. Her parents were-"

"Wealthy," Sherlock cut her off. "Daughter of Carter and Anne Harrison. Her mother and father sent her to you due to unrealistic expectations. She's currently has a vast interest in music, but her parents don't approve of it causing her to lash out. Due to her mild social anxiety and behavior unexpected in her class, she has few friends. This has caused her parents concern. She's of moderate intelligence allowing her to use that to her advantage to frighten off numerous psychiatrists before the Harrison's chose to go to an effective yet unorthodox psychiatrist: you, who uses these lessons simply to help her social anxiety and to make it clear, there's nothing wrong. Tonight, she had been out on the town. Judging from the mud on her boots, she was at the university. Likely utilizing the violin judging from her hands. She was to return back home when something happened." He kneeled down to take a better look at the blood and the hands. "There's no splatter, and it's definitely not her own. Judging from the blood's position, she was holding someone who was bleeding. They're dead now."

"Why don't we just ask her?" Jen snapped at him. She didn't like him treating Carrie as if she was just a tool. "Do you have any smelling salt?" John turned to the kitchen to look for what she asked for before returning and handing it to her. She wafted it under her nose. The girl came through looking groggy.

"J-Jen?" Carrie asked her.

"That's right," Jen smiled at her gentle before Sherlock started rattling off questions at her.

"Where were you? Whose blood is on you? Why were you crying?" Jen stood and slapped him clear across the face not having any of his shit right now. The sound echoed through the room as the pink mark grew more vibrant.

"Shut it, Holmes," she told him before she turned to Carrie, who looked confused. She needed to be handled gently right now. "Carrie, hun," she whispered kneeling at her side. "I need you to tell me what happened."

"What… happened?" she muttered before her eyes drifted to her shirt, and she was starting to panic recalling what had happened.

"Carrie, Carrie," she said grabbing the girl in a sloppy embrace to try and assure her of her safety, "you're fine. You're completely fine. See that man who I slapped?" she asked the girl nodding to Sherlock. "That's Sherlock Holmes. He's a pain in the ass, but he's the most brilliant man I've ever known, and I've known brilliant men. Always one step ahead of the bad guy he is, and see the man behind him? Stupidly loyal and one of the kindest man I've ever met. He's a great shot and a fantastic doctor. You're safe, Carrie. You're safe. Tell me, tell them what happened?" Carrie nodded slowly as tears fell down her eyes.

"I was… I was walking home from the university-" she started.

"Skip that part, I know," Sherlock told her as he paced listening to her speak. He seemed to have gotten over Jen hitting him pretty fast, a little too fast in Jen's opinion.

"Do you want to be slapped again?" He paused and looked at her. The pink mark still on his cheek; she was just itching for another shot.

"No," he said almost like a child.

"Then let her talk," she told him firmly a bit disappointed no challenge was isssued. What she would give for a swing or two at him... despite being on better terms than previously. "Go on."

"Then you texted me."

"I what?" Jen asked with a frown.

"You texted me," Carrie replied. "You told me to meet you at the corner of Gower."

"I never texted you, Carrie," Jen told her.

"I… Look I'll show you," Carrie said taking out her phone and unlocking it. Sherlock snatched it from her hand before Jen could even protest. "Erm…"

"He's a consulting detective," Jen explained seeing the confused expression. "Putting puzzle together is sort of his living... and his high."

"Is he your boyfriend?" Carrie had often asked about Jen's own personal life, but she always was very vague about it as it was sometimes necessary to be especially in her line of work. Though on the other hand, how can you get someone to talk to you if they refuse to talk back.

"I think I'd rather jump out a window," she told her flatly, and she meant it. "No, I'm staying here, because I've recently pissed off a psychopath. This probably has to do with it." She said it so casually that Carrie looked at her surprised; she didn't imagine anyone could be pissed off by Jen so much so that she needed protection of some sort. Carrie always saw a softer, gentler, and understanding side that those in her personal life had a hard time sound of a text rang from Carrie's phone.

"It's from you," Sherlock told Jen flatly. "Someone's hacked your number."

"What does it say?" Jen asked. Sherlock frowned and read it out loud.

"Dinner. Tomorrow. 7. I'll pick you up, or I'll gladly get your attention by putting a bullet in Miss Harrison's brain." Carrie's face fell flat before turning a rather vibrant white.

"Someone... someone was killed because of me?" Carrie asked confused.

"No, he killed someone because of me," Jen told her with a frown. Things were not going well. Why did this have to happen? She stood and looked to Sherlock. "Earlier… you asked who I texting. Jim Moriarty… has been sending me texts for the last few days. I've been answering them, but never… he's asked me to dinner. He's a raving psychopath."

"Phone," Sherlock said holding out his hand. Jen unlocked her phone before putting it in Sherlock's capable hands. Despite wanting to throw him out a window sometimes, she did trust him, and she did believe he of all people could help her if needed. Not that she wanted his help; she didn't need to be in his debt any more than she already was. He scrolled through her texts. "What does he want with you?" he muttered before looking to Jen trying to analyze her again and getting nothing of interest other than things he knew. "This organization you were part of… would they interest Moriarty? Yes, of course they would. Would they take an offer from him? No, of course not. They've been disbanded for over three years. One last question: is he capable of finding the other members?"

"I told you Mr. Holmes," Jen replied sounding exhausted, "there are people like me who could be standing right in front of you, and you wouldn't have a clue who they are even if you've seen them a dozen times. We all hide in plain sight where the world can see us, but we will not be found unless we want to be. The organization is comprised of these people. He wouldn't be able to reach them… unless one of us betrayed the others." Sherlock stopped pacing and dropped his arm with her phone. He turned and stared at her with his piercing eyes. She had been naked in front of dozens of people, but she had never felt more naked than now standing in front of Sherlock Holmes with her clothes on.

"What does the organization have that he wants?" Jen was silent. "They have something he wants, and the only person he knows that's part of them is you. He will torture you, Ginny. What do you have?"

"Information about the people behind the curtain," she told him. "There are people who make the world run… people like your brother. They're a group of 32 people, and without them and those they teach, this world would be nothing. We would fall in a darkness. We know these people. We know what they do, and we know how to kill them."

"If he wanted that information, he would have it," Sherlock snapped gripping her shoulders. He wanted to shake the answers out of her, and yell at her to stop hiding valuable information. "What do you have?"

"Ursa," she told him looking up at him. She didn't suspect the words meant anything to him, but they meant hell to her. The word alone sent her spiraling into her own version of hell filled with endless nights and a mocking voice of a deadly woman pressing on her every flaw, every pressure point, a woman who was her own devil, her own demon.

"Ursa?" he questioned.

"I don't know her real name as she didn't know mine, but she was my opposite and yet, she was me," she said with a frown as she remembered the woman that took everything from her: her name, her job, her love, her trust, her friends, and very nearly her life and sanity. "I cannot tell you much about her, but I know what James wants. He seeks to know where she is."

"Why?"

"They were lovers," she told him. "He created her, twisted her into a demon. She was his, and she took everything from me, so I put a bullet in her head," she told him simply. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath putting his hands in his praying position.

"He will kill if you say tell him that," Sherlock told her.

"I know," she said simply, and they fell silent.

"I'm missing something, aren't I?" Carrie asked looking between the two as he tried to understand what she was planning, and if it was the best move. He could have her dying... because of the debt, obviously.

"I'm afraid I'm a little more than psychiatrist, Carrie," Jen told her, "but you don't need to worry. I'll meet Jim tomorrow for dinner, and you'll be fine."

"No you aren't," John said immediately and in a panic. "He'll kill you."

"Unlikely," Sherlock told him. "Torture her to the brink of death is more likely."

"Thanks," Jen said sarcastically before she turned to John. "I'll be fine." No she wasn't. "Really. I've dealt with men like him before. He's smarter than any other opponent, but I know how to play the game. I've played for years. James Moriarty… he doesn't scare me, and I won't betray my comrades." He terrified her but she was going to work through this. She was going to manage this. She was going to beat James Moriarty at the game.

"He's a psychopath!" John yelled stating the obvious. He was unaware exactly how much of a psychopath, and how dangerous he really was. John and Sherlock's knowledge only scratched the surface. It changed nothing.

"And I deal with psychopaths on a daily basis," she told him trying to get him to see logic, but every fiber in her body was telling her this was the worst idea she's ever had. "Look, if I don't go, Carrie dies. I go then no one else has to die for my slip up." It was her fault he knew. If she had said nothing, none of this would never had happened. She made a critical error.

"Do you have a plan?" John asked.

"Does she look like a woman with a plan?" Sherlock asked him before he let himself fall into his chair. He pushed his hands to a praying position. She knew what he was doing. His amazing mind was trying to find a solution, a way to get her out of this. She didn't want that. She. Did. Not. Need. Help. She had to convince him of this.

"Sherlock," she said gently kneeling in front. He looked down at her. They had never been so close before. He noted as he stared back at her eyes that they weren't quite the solid gray he thought they were. There was a dark outer ring on her iris, and her eyes were a light gray that had soft lighter silver lines breaking the solidarity of the color. It looked like light reflect off of water. In between those breaks was the deep gray, but looked at the right angle one could mistake it for a dark blue. To call the color solid was a cataclysmic mistake. The color was absolutely exquisite. "Don't interfere," she told him breaking him out of his thoughts as he tried to name the color. A ridiculous notion, he realized.

"He and I are playing a game, Ginny," he informed her, "and I find it insulting that he wants to add you as a player."

"Sherlock," she said sternly. "You said you owe me a debt. Don't interfere, and I swear part of your debt will be repaid."

"Why does it matter?" he asked her.

"Because I owe you a debt," she told him, and she smiled ever so slightly, "and it would be a shame for the world to lose a mind like yours when we need it most. If Jim Moriarty kills me, I need you to beat him. You have to." Vengeance in death if this turned ugly.

"And what happens when I get a call saying you're dead? Then what?"

"There's a small town called Braxton. It's to the east on the sea. It's home. Scatter my ashes there. Damon will want to come, so let him, and then we'll be even, even if I'm dead. Sound good?" He paused looking down her.

"Fine as long it's settled," he said coldly getting up and leaving. He went to his room slamming the door behind him.

"He's worried," John noted quietly. Sherlock was using the debt as an excuse to be worried and refused to admit any other reason why he should be worried, but he was. Jen gave him an out, but it wouldn't settle his mind. He wasn't worried because of the debt. John could see it but neither party could.

"Why should he worried about me?" Jen asked.

"He cares," John said, "so do I. Jen-"

"John," she said with a bright smile, "I can handle it. Go to bed. It's late." He hesitated, but nodded before he left her alone with Carrie. Her smile fell; she wasn't an idiot. She could very well be lying on the slab in Bart's morgue by tomorrow.

"Are you going to be okay?" Carrie asked her watching her face crease with worry and exhaustion. She had never seen a side to her that is anything but the bright, helpful psychiatrist who was always open to listening to others.

"Let me see if I have something that you can wear," Jen said ignoring her question before she went looking through the bags of clothes she just bought. "You can stay the night here."

"Always knew you weren't some shrink," Carrie laughed. It was true; she just had a way about her that suggested there was something more. Jen smiled -though it was somewhat broken- before handing her a too big t-shirt she had bought for the night.

"Change. I'm going to make a call," she said stepping into the hall. She walked down the stairs and out the door before she held out her phone to dial a number. She needed insurance if she was going face to face with a madman.

"Hello?" a woman's voice said.

"Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead," she replied. "Seven in the evening. 221B Baker Street." She closed her phone and leaned against the building with a sigh before she took out a cigarette. It was going to be a long night.

When she finished her cigarette, she went inside to see Carrie attempting to sleep on the couch. Jen, who wasn't remotely tired, picked a book from the bookshelf before she sat down in Sherlock's seat. She had to ease her mind; she had to be calm. Moriarty would see right through her if she wasn't.

* * *

Carrie left after breakfast that she had made, the following morning as Jen didn't think any danger would come to her as long as she showed. Jen went to work, as usual, much to Sherlock's irritation, and John's worry. She just wanted to keep her mind busy. Sherlock began shouting about the construction being distracting again and asked for the tenth time where Jen was, which John then answered… again though he had a feeling that Sherlock was more irritable than usual for obvious reasons.

She came just a half an hour before seven. She seemed surprisingly calm as she slipped on a black dress that formed around her body followed by a pair of red heels.

"Trying to impress him?" Sherlock asked venomously as she did her makeup sitting on the chair. He wasn't happy about this.

"One must impress those that are trying to kill them, Mr. Holmes. It shows grace and dignity," she replied before gently applying a red lipstick. "If you tried to kill me, I would show the same respect, I assure you."

"It's a form of begging," he said disgusted. "You're using your feminine wiles to convince him to let you live."

"I have feminine wiles?" she asked him surprised turning her eyes to him. She was teasing him in an attempt to ease up the tension that have formed in 221B. "I wasn't aware you noticed."

"I didn't," he told her irritated. She chuckled.

"Hear that, John, I have feminine wiles," she remarked to John, whose worry was increasing by the minute.

"Well, I think you're rather pretty," John told her making her smile.

"It's such a shame that we had no chemistry," she told him with sigh. "For once, I'd just like to date a nice guy."

"Sorry," he said with a slight smile; he was trying to give her the normalcy she needed right now. He was trying to be the good guy and remain optimistic. She shrugged. Her phone rang out telling her he was here.

"Don't worry," she told him, but he hugged her anyway terrified it was the last time she would come through those doors. She was even a little terrified that it would be the last time.

"Ginny," Sherlock called stopping her in the doorway. "Thank you… for that time. You didn't… thank you." She turned and gave him a dazzling smile. Sherlock Holmes never thanked people; it was so uncharacteristically humane of him.

"That's all you ever had to say, Sherlock, and thank you," she told him before leaving. They were both rather sure that it would be the last time they would see her alive, and they knew Ginevra Lorraine, the psychiatrist, but they didn't know Lupa. Lupa was dangerous and not to be played. She knew battle, and she knew how to play the game. She knew how to come out of this alive if she was careful.

* * *

A/N: I told myself if I got thirty reviews- as that was my goal- I would update today and sunday, and I did! So here have this! Ah ha! So we learn more about the organization and more about Jen! She will at some point flat out explain how she got mixed up with such an organization and be more specific on what the hell went on (in about three chapters). However, parts of it won't be explained until the sequel.

On a side note, I just like teasing y'all by telling you that in about four-six chapters we will find out exactly what happened between Sherlock and Jen that Jen thought she owed Sherlock and debt. =D

Also that's to my lovely reviewers: sassy starkid potterhead girl, TragicBlossoms, Cereza101, SemiraBlake, and rycbar15. You are all wonderful! Hope everyone enjoyed, and review please! They make my day!


	17. Do You See the Madness In You?

People- though Jen really couldn't tell you who people where- say that everyone wears a mask hiding their true selves, but she always thought this to be a ridiculous notion. Masks can fall off; masks can easily be broken and violently ripped off. Masks can't protect a person; masks don't make a person any less vulnerable. No, she always thought people wore armor. Some people wore full gear, and some simply held a shield that could easily be pulled away and tossed to the side without a care. People had to allow the armor to be stripped away from them; no one could force it off.

Jen, she wore full on armor. No one got underneath, not ever; no one could deduce her, not ever. And she knew which parts of her armor to remove for each person, each situation. For Sherlock and John, she had initially left her head exposed allowing them to see the wheels turning in her head, to see the emotions in her eyes. She hated to admit it, but she allowed them to peel away more armor than she intended. It allowed her to be a different person when necessary; it allowed her to hide. Today, she would expose nothing; she could not afford it. She had to tiptoe around James Moriarty, or she would die.

She slid into the black car waiting for her, and Moriarty was sitting in the car waiting for her. She wasn't surprised that he was actually in the car that pulled up to her. He was the theatrical type.

"You look lovely," he told her. She turned her attention to him; she didn't want to talk to him or be anywhere near him. He unnerved her. Sherlock unnerved her too, but that was in a different- concededly fond- way. Moriarty sent her nerves on end as she feared for not only her life but her sanity.

"Let's get straight to the point," she commented wanting to be done with this. "What do you want?" she asked.

"Let's wait until we get to the restaurant, shall we?" he asked, and she frowned. She didn't think he would actually be taking her to dinner. She figured he would threaten her, bring her somewhere secluded, but no, she should have figured that wasn't the case. This man was a 1-1 psychopath; he was different from the others, and she hated to admit it, but the small part of her that didn't fear him found him utterly fascinating. He drove her mind into a frenzy in a way no one could.

"Jen," he said mulling the name over. "What did they call you when you were in Shadow?" he asked her. Shadow, how long was it since she had heard the name of her organization? Not long enough. Should she tell him? Would he know her name? Would this man be her death?

"Lupa," she told him unsure which was the right descision. She chose to tell him the truth for reasons even she was unsure of. "They called me Lupa."

"Lupa," he uttered her name in a familiar tone. He had heard this name, and yet, she had a feeling he knew the answer to the question but asked out of some sort of twisted manners. "Ursa spoke of you."

"She spoke of you rather fondly of you as well," she told him. Perhaps... maybe just maybe she could get the answers she longed searched for out of him. Maybe he could put to rest her own mind. It was a bit ironic, wasn't it? That a psychopath would be the one to put her mind at ease. "She said you made her." A smile slowly crept on his face.

"Oh, I couldn't tell all the credit," Jim told her casually. "She had a fair number of cracks, and a darkness that just needed to be feed. It was just a matter of showing her what she was capable of."

"You created a monster," she replied viciously. It made a grin spread across his face as if he was incredibly pleased with the idea.

"I created a woman I would have started a nuclear war for if she simply asked," he informed her; his face became less psychotic playful and more psychotic twisted. "Do you know that sort of feeling? Have you ever loved someone so much you would watch this world burn for them?"

"Once but Ursa killed him," she told him coldly.

"She was such a naughty girl," he said with a mischievous smile. "You know, you remind me of her." He put a gentle hand on her face and gentle ran a finger over her cheek. It made her want to shutter. It made a pit in her stomach form; she wanted to empty the contents of her stomach or at the very least run. "We're here," he said getting out of the car and opening the door for her. She could have not been more grateful. She stepped out of the car, and her eyes wandered the street looking for something. They were at a very nice Italian restaurant. When they entered, it was completely empty. "I've paid the owner to let us have privacy," he informed her. Well, fuck. Pulled the chair out for her, and she sat as he order them both tea. "Relax," he said putting a hand on her shoulder, "if I decide to kill you, I promise to do it quickly. You're too pretty to ruin with torture." Of course, it didn't make her feel better though in his twisted way he was trying to assure her. What a comfort. She wonder vaguely who would she rather be comforted by: Sherlock Homes or James Moriarty then swept the idea under the rug and off to the side. She had other things to worry about.

"Thank you," she replied coolly. He sat down across from her, and his eyes traveled over her thinking. Was he trying to deduce her as Sherlock had done many times before? Would he see anything useful? Could he see anything? He was making her uncomfortable. "What do you want from me?" she asked again breaking the tension.

"Many things," he said being very unspecific. She was just going to ask if she had to. Ask what she assumed he wanted to know.

"If this is about Ursa fate-"

"I already know," he told her coldly. She stared him; she wasn't ready for this. She suspected him to question her on it, not know already. What was he going to do? Why was she still alive? What was he playing at? This was the problem with men like him; she couldn't understand them. She could barely understand her own brother for the love of God.

"You know?" she questioned confused.

"That you put a bullet in Ursa's head? Do you even know her real name?!" He shouted at her making her jump.

"No," she said quickly.

"Raine Aigle," he informed her quietly. "Before I got my hands into her she wanted to be a performer like you." How did he know she wanted to be a performer when she was younger? Truth be told she only got into psychology because of her talent to see social unrest. She never wanted to be a psychologist always an actress or a singer- never a dancer, she was a horrible dancer. She wondered how much more he knew.

"What's the point of this?" she asked not understanding. If he knew and didn't intend to kill her, what did he want? "Are you trying to make me see that woman's humanity? She killed the man I loved; she made me out to be a criminal; she turned my friends against me. I had to fake my own death because of her. If she had any humanity in her, I never saw it."

"Horrible, isn't it?" he spat with hate.

"What? Ursa?" she asked. "Yes, she was."

"Not Ursa," he sneered. "Love. They play it up so much; they don't tell you the dark side of it. People always love to quote a silly little fable: love is always patient and kind, never jealous, boastful, conceited, rude, or selfish. It doesn't take offense and isn't resentful. But you and I know that's all pretty words created by a parade of idiots, and none of it is true. It just always brings out the very worst in people, doesn't it?!" he shouted slamming his hands on the table. She jumped again still not used to his sudden change in behavior. "They see themselves more clearly than looking into a mirror," he said harshly. "I'm not talking about puppy love, obsession, or even a chemical response. I'm talking about when that chemical response is gone, and the obsession no longer holds intrigue, and you can't bear being ripped away from the person for reasons unknown to you, and you just hate that you can't live without them. Sometimes you can't bear the sight of them. I'm talking about the kind of emotion that sees every crack in the mask people place upon themselves; that tears you apart when you are left without them. You killed Raine."

"People die," she told him with a breath. "That's what people do." He stared at her before a smile fell on his face.

"I said the exact same thing to Sherlock," he told her. "How funny. You know that was always Raine's justification. They'll die anyway; I'm just ending their suffering. People die; that's they do."

"I can't help if that's fact, James," she replied calmly.

"She didn't have to die!" he shouted at her. She swallowed her fear.

"For the betterment of man, she did," she told him.

"Betterment of man?" he laughed. "Oh, no, no, don't pretend you did this for others. You killed her for yourself; you enjoyed it, didn't you?!" His madness consumed him as he shouted about his dead love.

"Every second of it," she told him coldly; a madness of her own brand spread in her eyes. "I only regret I couldn't give her the death I wanted. I wanted to watch her fall, and all I got was to put a bullet in her head. She didn't beg; she didn't scream in agony; she just gave me a blank stare and told me one thing."

"What's that?" She didn't answer. "What were her final words!?"

"You can't kill me; you need me," she ground out each word forcefully. "Obviously, she was wrong."

"Oh, I don't think so," he sang. She frowned. "You asked me why I brought you here, and I would think it obvious, Jen."

"Obvious?" she questioned. He was a confusion, and she couldn't read his emotions just like Sherlock. But the reason she could not read his emotions was because of their rapid change, whereas Sherlock's was just buried deep. How different yet similar the two men were. It was like they were two different sides to the same coin.

"You see it as clear as day: the madness in every person. Do you see the madness in you?" he asked her.

"In me?" she repeated blankly. Her own madness was hidden; she was sure of it.

"How many people have you killed for the sheer pleasure of it?" he asked making her cold, calculate façade slip. She tensed. No, he didn't know. How could he know? No one knew. She made sure no one could see that side of her. No one could see her hands and how drenched in blood they were.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said quickly, but he wasn't an idiot. Of course he wasn't. She was a bad liar, and he was genius.

"Oh, come ooooonnnnn, Doctor. You think I don't know? You're the sister of Peter Verown. The Carver, they called him."

"Say what you want about me, but don't talk about my brother," she warned.

"It's not about him; it's about you. How many of his victims were actually yours? They say there were only nine confirmed killings, but they say the numbers closer to a hundred people. Your brother killed a hundred people, but they kept digging after they arrested him, didn't they? They wanted more proof, but your brother stood and shouted to the high heavens that it was all him. He killed 104 people, he claimed. He gave names, and they stopped looking, but if they had kept up, they would have noticed a different pattern, wouldn't they? An accomplice. How many people know you aren't the person you claim to be?"

"I am not that person," she told him truthfully and coldly. She didn't want to open that part of her life. "Not anymore."

"Oh, now, we both know that's a lie," he told her. "How many times have you felt that lust flowing through your system? That's what it is after all; it's a craving you cannot deny."

"You're wrong," she told him.

"Wrong? I'm not wrong, and you know that," he sang. "Remember when you promised to ruin, Sherlock?" he asked. "That's the one thing I regret; I scared you off. Had I left it, you would have killed him for me."

"You're wrong."

"Naaahh," he said shaking his head. "You claim you only use the statistic 1-1 in one case and one case only, and that's if the person in front you is a complete unpredictable psychopath, who would kill you without a second glance and enjoy every second of it. That's you, isn't it? You to a tee."

"You. Are. Wrong!" she shouted at him digging her nails into her leg to control the quell of anger. She wanted to watch the life this man's body in any way- perhaps every way- possible.

"I'm not," he told her. "It's racing through you system right now? Isn't it?"

"Why are you doing this!?" she shouted.

"Wouldn't it be funny," he said innocently sipping his drink, "if you could be so easily turned into her? Sort of a uh… ironic twist, no? To have the woman who killed Raine become her shadow?"

"You're trying to morph me into the monster she was," she said finally understanding.

"Oh honey, I don't need to morph you; you've already created yourself. The blood on your hands is so much thicker than hers. She had a method to her madness; you, you have no method. You don't do it for the sake of chaos or war or peace or control like she did. You do it, because you like it, and that's the worst sort of killer, isn't it?! The kind that takes joy out of watching the lives of your victim fade, the kind that gets off on it!" She could not deny what he said to her. There was a darkness in her.

Darkness. People didn't understand. They didn't understand that true darkness in a person's heart wasn't an internal thing; it wasn't fictitious. It was external; it was tangible. It was like ink painted across them; it was like a shadow always growing darker until sometimes- in rare circumstances- it becomes you while you fall to the sidewalk and take its place as the intangible thing that couldn't exist without the tangible entity, the thing people could block out. The day that happens, you become a monster; you become savage and cave into the most basic urges. She could never kill the shadow; all she could do was struggle with it as it made an attempt to become real. It had been real in her life once; she had been its shadow. The things she did… sometimes she couldn't even remember. At times, days would be gone when she awoke covered in blood, alone. It was terrifying, and more than once she just cried unable to stop what she was, but those days were over now. The shadow still struggled for control- lately more than usual- yet she held onto her own self strong refusing to give in to it. She refused to let it become her and her become it. It was exhausting, and it tore her down repeatedly.

"How tired you look though no less lovely," he commented sipping his tea before continuing on his reasoning. "You needed Ursa as it allowed you to redirect that demon within you to someone more… socially acceptable. Without her, you're just a ticking time bomb, and my bet is you just need a little push."

"And you're that little push?" she questioned disdainfully.

"No, of course not," he told her with a smile. "I'm your new target for your demon, darling. I'm saving you."

"What?" she questioned suddenly confused. This whole situation just didn't make sense. Why would he want an enemy? Why was he offering himself up as her new enemy? Was he trying to save her? "Why? I don't understand why you would do this." He grinned.

"You really don't know, do you?" he asked utterly amused.

"No," she told him.

"That's fine," he told her. "One day you'll figure it out, but when you do, it'll destroy you, and poof! you'll be gone. Nothing more than a ghost will remain. I imagine you'll put a gun to your head that day."

"Then destroy me," she snapped. "I want answers!"

"You won't get them," he told her finishing his tea. Jen hadn't even touched hers. "Just be grateful."

"If this is about a debt-"

"Don't be so boringly simple!" he told her. "I want nothing from you." She was angry; she wanted to understand the game he was playing, but she couldn't. She would get answers out of him if she had to.

"James, look out the window," she demanded. So, it was going to be that way. "What do you see?" He did as she asked. The streets were rather busy with people today.

"Tourists, civilians, peasants," he remarked pleasantly.

"Nothing else of interest?" she asked. He frowned and looked back out the window. His eyes started darting about. "Among the crowd, on all sides of this restaurant are ten members of Shadow that followed us here. They're armed, and they know who you are. I want answers, and if you don't give them to me, I'll have you shot down."

"What makes you think that I care about actual staying alive?" he asked her. "It's so boring, isn't it?"

"Because I'm not the person you want to play a game with," she told him. "You want to play a game with Sherlock, because he's you. He's your mirror, the other side of your coin. You will tell me for one reason: you want to watch Holmes fall, and you can't do that dead."

"I think that's it for today; your death threats are rather tedious," he said standing and throwing down some money. She couldn't believe this! He went to turn away, but she grabbed his arm. He turned to her. She wouldn't get a reason; she wondered why, but suddenly had another worry outside of her own.

"Let's make this quick then: stay away from my friends, my family, my patients, and anyone else around me, or I'll see to it you fall. I'll see to it you are crying at my feet begging for me to shoot you in the God damn face."

"Have you ever thought of joining the criminal ranks?" he asked her looking down at her as if he was quizzing her. "You would make a damn good one."

"I have morals," she told him, and he smiled seeming entertained by her answer.

"Oh, that's so boringly normal!" he exclaimed grandly. "Life as a criminal is liberating! No pesky things like rules and morals!"

"Now isn't a good day to test why I have rules and morals, James," she replied coldly, and he smiled.

"It's a wonder," he remarked absently. "You and her are so similar yet so different!"

"Her? Ursa?"

"Well, yes, but this time I wasn't talking about her," he told her.

"Who then?"

"Your sister," he replied with a smile.

"I have no sister," she replied trying to lie through her teeth, but he wasn't stupid. He was anything but. He tisked her.

"Now, now, she may think you're dead, but I made the connection, Doctor Lorraine. Shall I tell her you're alive?"

"What about my sister?" she asked him closing her eyes and trying to keep the panic out of her voice. What had she done this time!? She just wanted to groan and bang her head into the table until she was rendered unconscious.

"She contacted me not long after we met," he told her with a smile. "Rather charming woman. She needed help."

"Help?" she asked with a frown.

"I'm a consulting criminal," he told her. "It's what I do. Now, I do believe I have clients to deal with." He turned and left the restaurant, and she ran after him shouting.

"What about my sister?!" she asked as he stepped into the car and gave her a rather flirtatious smile.

"Until next time, hun," he smiled, "and by the way, you were wrong. I am interested in playing a game with you, but it's not about watching you fall, Doctor. It's about watching you shatter." He shut the door. Jen could feel herself slowly having a meltdown. She could feel panic she had held back all through the meeting seeping through her chest, and she did the only thing she could when she felt as if she was about to lose control in public. She called a cab.

* * *

Her dress was in tatters, her heels were both broken, her hair was knotted, and most of her makeup had been rubbed off by blood, sweat, and tears that were still falling. She couldn't stop them; Moriarty not only made her feel fear; he made her fear for her insanity. She was injured and really should have gone to the hospital, but all she wanted to do was lie down. She had been in Damon's fight ring again trying to fight the intangible pain.

"Jen, Jesus Christ," John said seeing her. She collapsed onto the sofa and curled into a ball letting the tears finish falling. She had to be strong; she had to put her mental state back together. She didn't want anyone to see her like this. "How did you get away from him?" She looked to John with a confused expression.

"What?" she uttered in something of a whisper. "Oh," she said realizing he thought Moriarty did that to her.

"That's not from him," Sherlock said looking over her to assess the damage and how it was done. He could at least see that. Though the raw emotion she was going through was rather concerning, and he could quite tell what she was feeling. He was never good with emotions.

"What's it from then?" John asked.

"Fight," Sherlock told him.

"Fight? I don't get in fights," she told him in mock outrage sitting up quickly wiping her face and trying to slip back on her fractured armor. "I'm a lady."

"Broken ribs, fractured ankle, mild concussion, and pulled left leg muscle," Sherlock said listing her injuries. "You should get healthier outlets."

"Says the man who runs around the city after serial killers on a weekly basis," she said with a sigh. "I'm fine. Really, I'm great."

"What did you say to Moriarty to get him to let you go?" John asked her confused.

"Nothing," she shrugged. "He just wanted to talk." It sounded a bit stupid coming out of her mouth.

"But he struck a nerve," Sherlock muttered. "Probably to do with your family as that's the one topic that sends you into a spiraling mess."

"Excuse me?" she asked raising an eyebrow at him.

"You broke anything glass in this flat simply because you thought your mother's book had been burned in a fire. Sentiment is useless and holds one back," he told her. She just sneered at him before she buried her face into the pillow on the couch debating to correct him but rather chose to divert the direction of the conversation.

"How to explain sentiment to an emotionless idiot," she muttered. "Ah. Imagine you had a very important, very intriguing experiment started, and you put a lot of time into it. Then one day, someone changed the environment ruining your experiment, but here's the thing. You can't duplicate it anymore because a material you had used in it is no longer found anywhere. How would you feel?"

"Irritated and possibly very angry."

"Right? And you would try to think of an alternative way to duplicate the experiment, but it's not the same. You'll always be wondering what if that person hadn't fucked it up. What sort of results would it yield? And it nags at you because you'll never know. That is what sentiment is like." He paused to think on this.

"Why couldn't someone explain sentiment like that before? It's much more logical that way. I mean why anyone would bother to extend that feeling to humans is beyond me, but it's definitely more understandable."

"No one bothered to explain it like that before, because no one would think to," she told him. "Normal people understand sentiment. You're just strange."

"You explained it to me," he told her.

"That's because I understand how your mind works. You're not the enigma you think you are," she replied before she let her face fall back to the pillow. She turned away from them. She just wanted to forget about today; she wanted to forget Jim Moriarty and his confusing words. "You were wrong by the way... I mean, sort of," she told Sherlock. "He scared me. It's not a flight or fight sort of thing. He rattled me down to my core with words."

"He won't hurt you, Jen," John assured her sitting on the edge of the couch near her.

"He doesn't intend to hurt me, John," she told him quietly. "He intends much worse, and I have never feared any other man more. He forced off my armor and exposed me before preceding to torture me. I didn't think I could feel that sort of pain."

"He tortured you?" John questioned, but Sherlock scoffed.

"She's being metaphorical," Sherlock informed him. "Stop pitying yourself, Ginny. It doesn't suit you."

"I don't expect you to understand," she muttered.

"What I understand is that you're letting a psychopath push around your emotions," he replied. "It's rather pathetic. He's a person- a person much more intelligent than you- but a person, and if I recall, you don't let people push you around and tell you what to do. You are the sort to put people in their place and stand against them no matter how incredibly stupid."

"You don't understand! That man is making me question my own sanity!" she snapped turning to face him. She sat up. "My mental state is cracking under the pressure."

"Then fix it," he said simply and coldly as it was the easiest thing in the world.

"Easier said down, you prat," she snapped.

"No," he told her staring at her with a sort of intensity. "It is that easy for you. It's the way you are. So, patch up your mentality and continue to fight on like you always do." She stared at him as if it was the first time she ever saw him. How long had he observed her to presume the sort of person she was? What made him care, and why bother now? She looked to John as Sherlock turned back to his work. John smiled gently at her and shrugged. She looked to Holmes again; he was just a wonder sometimes.

"You're right," she told him.

"Of course I am," he muttered already back in his work and tired of the conversation.

"Thank you," she said as she slowly stood. She needed to shower and address her wounds- she would rather do that at Myra's or perhaps Molly's than the boys'. She paused at the door to realize what had happened. Moriarty had rattled her, and Sherlock- though unintentionally- had helped soothe her. When in the hell did that happen? "God, I fucking hate you," she muttered though she wasn't sure if she meant it anymore.

"The feeling is mutual, Ginny," Sherlock replied not looking up from his work.

* * *

A/N: Well, then. Lots and lots of things going on. And as I said Ursa is more important in the sequel, but she had to be addressed as did Moriarty's relation with her. I imagine that if Moriarty was in love with a woman, it would be his equal in not only intelligence but in insanity. My goal- by the end of all this... I mean this and the sequel and any other sequels to come- is to be not only shocked and confused but angry and really wanting to just throw your computer across the room. At the end of this particular story, I want you to feel like you the reader have had your heart broken into a million little pieces, and I'm going to try really hard, because I'm awful.

Currently, are you both shocked and confused? Yes? Good. Hold onto that confusion and shock as it will only get worse. YAY! =D Everything will be explained in time dears. There are always methods to my madness.

As always thanks to my lovely reviewers: hannahhobnob, Misplaced Levity, TragicBlossoms! Hooray! Hope you enjoy! See you Saturday! Review please!


	18. Move-in Mayhem

Construction was done the following morning much to Jen's excitement. It was Saturday, so she was free to move in the furniture as she had no pressing matters to deal with. Moriarty was shoved to the back of her mind, and she just pressed it down for any future breakdown. She was sure it would be a bad one, but she was happy today to move on to a new part of her life at Baker Street.

"Are you ready?" she asked practically jumping up and down. She had designed the layout of the apartment and was ecstatic to see the fruits of her labor. Several sheets had been hiding the construction work the entire time to make it a surprise. Mrs. Hudson, John, Damon, and a rather moody Sherlock stood in front of the sheet.

"We haven't got all day," Sherlock snapped. He hadn't had a good case in two days, and Jen was driving him mad.

"Shut up," she said happily before she pulled off the sheet to reveal a staircase with the same flooring to match the stairs leading up to 221B. At the end of the stairs was a small landing and then a brand new black door with the shiny, gold letters 221C. "Here's the new key," she said handing Mrs. Hudson her new copy. "Come on then." She led them into the newly renovated flat. It was covered in all wood floors. "Reclaimed Pine," she remarked. "It's used in most historical houses." The sitting room was expanded outward so that it was not only bigger, but also extended into a small kitchen with a counter top being the only thing cutting off the kitchen from the sitting room. Three doors were seen in various areas of the flat. The first door was just off the kitchen and led to what would be Damon's room, the door closer to the entrance was the bathroom, and the door opposite of the larger window in the apartment lead to Jen's room. The rooms were very simple with a single closet in both. The bathroom had new appliances and had a flooring and sink of marble that matched the other white appliances. The walls all matched the original wallpapering.

"Always keep something original," Damon noted looking at the wallpaper. "When will the furnishing be here?" He looked to Jen, who pulled her wrist up to look at the time on her father's old watch, but the doorbell cut off her answer.

"Ah, that's them," she said happily. She looked to John and Sherlock. "You two are helping, no excuses, but be very careful. My furniture is very old, and it's been in storage for ages. Some of it will probably have to be restored, and don't give me that look, Holmes! You're helping." He had a look of displeasure on his face. He would rather be working his current case- however dull- than helping her move things into her flat. "Let's go."

It was no longer a mystery to Sherlock as to why Jen always smelled like turpentine. The antique furnishing she had collected over the years had an obvious look of care to them as if she often fixed them up and polished them over a hundred times.

"Why does she have all this antique furniture?" John asked in the moving truck.

"It's a hobby," Damon remarked helping John lift an old coffee table. Sherlock just watched them with a bored, uninterested expression on his face. Did Jen really expect him to help? No, of course she didn't. She was much too clever to think the impossible. "Her father took up the hobby when he wasn't blowing up the house, and she continued it after he became too sick to work on anything. I think most of the furniture was his, and it was the only thing she inherited… except for the piano. That was her mother's."

"Her mother played piano?" John asked as they slowly moved the table out of the truck.

"According to Jen, that's how her mother and father met. She was singing in a club," Damon replied. "She doesn't talk about Gina much. After she left, it sort of destroyed her family."

"Gina?" Sherlock asked finding this tad bit of information useful. "Ginevra was named after her."

"Yeah," Damon replied. "Regina and Ginevra. When she was young people used to call her Gina up until her mother left, and she took up the name Jenny as she couldn't stand being called Gina. Then around 13 when she was thrown in boarding school by her brother, Robbie, she took up Ginny. Then, it was Gin for a while, and then when I met her around… let's see… she was 19 when I met her, and by then she was only going by Shadow's codename, Lupa. She changed to Jen when she moved to London."

"I thought she co-created Shadow," Sherlock told him. "If that's the case, it can't be that old."

"She did," Damon said with a nod. "Erm… Christopher Black, the other cofounder, used to call her Lupa before Shadow even existed. It's how the codenames became named after wolves. They met when she was er… 16 or so."

"Why wolves?" Sherlock questioned.

"Little Red Riding Hood. Lupa used to say: people are not always people, and wolves are not always wolves, and that she always confused wolves for people and people for wolves. So Chris used to call her Lupa." Damon fell silent when he saw Jen come out the door and make her way toward them.

"Oi! What did I tell you, Sherlock!?" she yelled at him as she jumped into the moving van.

"If I break something, will it get me out of this?" he asked her sounding annoyed and rather bored by this whole event, and he was. His genius was wasted on the tedious task of moving furniture, or so he believed.

"For every piece of furniture you break, I'll break a bone of yours," she replied rather viciously giving him a dining room chair. "Now go put this in the flat." He took it giving her a rather nasty look before leaving. Damon and John had just gotten the table in the door. Jen took a small end table to bring inside.

The furniture was moved slowly with Jen regularly threatening Sherlock to keep him moving her furniture, which she had quite a bit of. Sherlock did as she ask though rather grudgingly; he only did so as it gave him an opportunity to observe the array of furniture. He had a hard time observing her, but her things, now that she couldn't hide.

"What are these boxes?" John asked Damon noting the array of old cardboard boxes in the back of the truck after nearly all the furniture was moved. "I thought everything was burned in the fire."

"Everything did," Damon replied looking through some of the boxes to spy various odds and ends. "Must be old things of Lupa's."

"When dad died," Jen said watching them. They both spun around. She was standing on the ground in front of the truck with Sherlock, "I couldn't look at anything that reminded me of him, so everything left to me and pretty much everything I owned went into storage. I guess now I have to look through the boxes now." She jumped up to the van to start moving the boxes. Eventually, everything was moved out of the van except for the piano. Jen stood staring at it before Damon jumped up alongside her.

"That's not fitting down those stairs," Damon said shaking his head before John hopped up.

"No really?" Jen asked rolling her eyes.

"Can you take it apart?" John asked.

"I can take out everything but the case," she told him, "but it doesn't fix the it's-too-wide problem. I'm not entirely sure we could manage titling it so that it could fit. The frame is pretty heavy alone."

"You could sell-"

"I'm not selling my piano," she snapped at Damon.

"You could keep it up in our flat," John offered. "It would be easier to get it upstairs than downstairs. It's more open, and there're fewer steps." Jen bit her nails thinking. She didn't want to get rid of her piano, but it would be a damned inconvenience to keep up in the boys' flat. What other choice did she really have?

"Would you mind?" she asked. "You guys have an awful lot of stuff."

"We'll clear a spot," John told her before he jumped down to head up to the flat to make room. Jen began to take apart the piano very carefully with Damon's help. She took the lightest part of the piano to bring it up stairs.

"She's not keeping that up here!" Sherlock shouted making her roll her eyes. "It'll just be a distraction!"

"That's me," she said cheerily entering the flat. John had cleared a space in the corner near a window. "A distraction." She set the desk of the piano gently down. Damon followed with the key cover. "I'm going to need help with the actual piano part, so stop pouting and come back outside." She left before coming back with the front board and end blocks. Her and Damon both end up carrying the action followed by the lid. "Okay, only have the harp and frame left, but the harp weighs about 300 pounds. The frame only weighs about 115 max." With the four of them, after John and Jen both told off Sherlock, it was surprisingly easy to move the rest of the piano into the flat. "Pay the truck driver. The frame for your bed and the mattresses should be here soon. Sign for them and instruct them," she told Damon. "I'm going to take a minute to put the piano back together." Damon nodded before he left her to start putting the piano back together.

"Is it an antique?" John asked her as she secured the harp back in the frame.

"No," she replied being very careful with the parts. "I mean… it's about 40 years old, but it has no monetary significance, just sentimental. Help me slid in the action?"

"The action?" John asked.

"The keyboard," she told him. He nodded and helped her slide it in place. The doorbell rang. "Can you get that, John?" she asked him screwing on the end blocks. He left her and Sherlock alone. Generally a bad decision on his part.

"I don't want you in here while I'm working," he told her staring at her and the piano. He didn't want this to be a distraction; she already distracted him enough as it is.

"Don't worry. I'll only come up if I know you're not home. I don't want to be a bother to your work," she told him sincerely. He watched as she continued to put together the piano.

"It's never stopped you before," he remarked.

"Yes, well, I like to annoy you," she laughed having difficulty with the front board. "You're response is always amusing." The front board was finally put on before she started to put the lid back on. "Unpredictable too," she said. She finished putting the piano together before she gently started cleaning it with gum turpentine. The wood shone as if was new at every spot she cleaned.

"Do you care for your mother?" Sherlock asked her suddenly. She glanced at him before she continued cleaning.

"What do you think?" she asked. "She left me when I was eight years old. I had to quit school to take care of my family."

"That's what is confusing me," he told her. "She had caused nearly all the problems in your youth, and yet you panicked when you thought her book was destroyed. You also take great care with her piano."

"I take great care with her piano, because I play and appreciate it."

"No," he told her watching her. "It's sentimental to you." She paused and looked at him with a frown before she continued cleaning it. It was a wonder to her that she was even debating telling him something personal to her. She didn't know why, but she wanted to share things with him, things that she wouldn't anyone else. Perhaps, it was the lack of judgment she felt on his part, or the lack of sympathy, as she wanted no one's pity. Or perhaps, she felt that anything she said to him wasn't wasteful as he would put it in his mind palace where it would stay until Holmes faded from the world. Whatever it was, she wanted him to know her even if it pained her to admit that, and she in turn wanted to know him- though she doubted she ever would.

"I had a hard time sleeping as a child," she told him honestly. "Every night Gina would pull me into her lap at the piano and sang for me. She was very gentle with me and doted on me."

"You were her favorite," he noted.

"I was her favorite," she confirmed.

"I imagine based on the attachment that your father left her not the other way around," Sherlock deduced looking at her. "She loved him, but perhaps he had qualms with being with a married woman. Likely didn't know about your existence." She paused frowning as she thought about what he said. It was odd for her to hear anyone call a man she never met her father. She had always thought of the man she lived with to be her father as did everyone else despite knowing she was the result of one of her mother's numerous affairs.

"The man I lived with was the man I considered my father," she informed him politely as she continued cleaning the piano. "It doesn't matter if he shared no biological traits with me. As for my mother, I can't just erase the times she acted as my mother. How can I hate her when I'm just like her?" she muttered cleaning. "I hate that I still love my mother when she doesn't deserve it." She fell silent as she finished cleaning the piano.

"I don't think so," he told her, and she sat on the bench to watch him. This was one of the first pleasant conversations they've had since her first night at Baker's Street.

"You don't what?"

"You've shown a loyalty almost as stupid as John's," he informed her. "Your mother doesn't have a concept of loyalty." She paused to think on what he said before she slowly formed a response.

"That's very kind of you to say," she told him.

"It's an observation not a kindness," he replied before she sighed and stood from the bench.

"Well, let's go take a look at the flat, eh?" she said heading out. "If you don't, I'll bother you until you come down." He rolled his eyes before he stood to follow her down the flat. Damon and Mrs. Hudson were talking when they walked in.

"That's everything," Jen said looking around the beautifully arranged flat. "The rest of things are just small and are coming in packages that, for the most part, will be left at the front door. Dishes, clothes, books, pots, pans, books, knickknacks, telly, books, bedding, art supplies, and did I mention books? Most of it should be coming today, so don't worry about the doorbell. It's likely just another person delivering a package, and I'll get it. What are you boys up to tonight?" she asked John and Sherlock.

"Case. That we should be getting on with," Sherlock told John still looking annoyed that Jen made him help set up her flat. She rolled her eyes before collapsing into a red antique lounge. Damon sat in a chair near her.

"Give John the night off, Sherlock. Jesus. This is the first night without construction," she told him. "The case can wait. I didn't even know you were working a case."

"A socialite's daughter is missing," John explained.

"If you mean May Jones, she ran off with Phillip Henderson to get married," Damon replied bored.

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked him.

"Henderson and May are both… well, let's call them customers of mine. You've met Henderson, Jen,"

"Have I?" she asked.

"He asked you how much it would cost to have you in his bed for the night," he recalled making Jen give a flat 'Oh.' She hated most of Damon's clients. Though a few were amusing, the rest were pigs rolling around in their own filth making her generally want to stay away from Damon's work.

"Who would run off with the pig?" Jen asked crinkling her nose.

"May is one of the stupidest girls you'll ever meet. She once asked me how to spell orange," Damon told her making her laugh. "She ran off with Henderson for his money."

"Lovely, case solved then," Jen said clapping her hands together.

"Perhaps we could have house warming party," Mrs. Hudson offered. "It's still quite early."

"That's a great idea, Mrs. Hudson," Damon said happily.

"Great," John said. "I'll invite Sarah, so you can meet her, Jen."

"And I'll call Molly and Tom," Jen said happily.

"And I've got Myra and… do you mind if I invite Jack?" Jen gave him a distasteful look that clearly said the opinion of the topic. "He's my best mate, Lupa. It's not my fault you slept with him."

"It's not my fault he can't get over it," Jen replied.

"Told you not to."

"Told him I wasn't interested."

"It's kind of mix signals when you tell someone that and then shag them."

"Fine, but if he says anything crude to me, I'm sticking his head in the oven." The doorbell rang making her stand.

"I'll let him know," Damon called before he pulled out a cell phone. He entered his room to talk in private. John as well stepped out the door to talk to Sarah. Mrs. Hudson had left with Jen mumbling something about making some sort of baked good. This left Sherlock Holmes alone with all of the boxes, so he found himself rummaging through her boxes. He couldn't help but smile fondly when he found her old school blazer in one of the boxes mixed in with various play scripts. He hated school, but he had to admit it was rather interesting when she went to school with him. His smile fell when he found a picture of himself in the box. It wasn't a photo he recognized, and he could tell by the angle it was taken without him noticing. He flipped over the back. A very neat, handwritten note was written.

_~Gina, _

_Though you fight against me every step of the way, I have chosen to agree to your request in hopes you'll one day forgive me for the way I have been toward you. You asked me about a Sherlock Holmes and his involvement with Connor Waite's murder. I can assure you he was not the one handling the weapon. However, I've been informed he's been part of the cover up leading to a dead end in the case. This has been easily covered by his brother, an associate of mine: Mycroft Holmes. I've gotten additional news from Mycroft telling me that Sherlock has been looking for you to no avail. I've become concerned where you are as well. No one's heard from you in nearly a year. Please write me back as soon as possible. In back of this, is a photo taken of Mr. Holmes at school to assure you that my research has not been fabricated. _

_~Robert Verown_

"What are you doing?" she asked snatching the photo out of his hand. She was slightly embarrassed he found the photograph. She had kept it from… research purposes, or so she tells herself. "Don't go through my things."

"You had someone was spy on me," he accused.

"I was making sure you didn't get arrested because of me," she told him throwing the photo back in the back before shutting the box that held reminisce of school days gone by. It wasn't a time she wished to remember.

"Didn't know you cared so much?" he replied dryly making her snap her attention back to him.

"Sherlock," she said turning to him, "you always interested me. You looked as lonely as I felt." They stared at each other trying to understand each other. There was a knock on the door making Jen jump, and Sherlock pace around the room before he sat in a chair near the fireplace, one of the only original parts of the flat. "Hello, Molly," Jen said brightly hugging her friend. "How are you?"

"Good," she mumbled, but her eyes drifted to Sherlock. Molly's hopeless crush on Sherlock Holmes made her want to cringe. The man was far too damaged for a rather normal- though painfully nervous- woman like Molly Hooper.

"Don't bother. He's irritated with me for making him help move my furniture," she sighed before Damon came in with a tall, rather strong sandy-haired man. He had something of a crooked smile.

"Hey, Jen," he grinned.

"Keep it in your pants, Jack," she replied rolling her eyes before she collapsed back in her antique lounge across from Sherlock. Myra arrived with a bottle of Damon's favorite wine. She was followed by John and a woman Jen had never met.

"Sarah, this is Doctor Jen Lorraine," John said gesturing to her. Jen held out a hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sarah," Jen smiled as Sarah shook her head. "John just speaks wonders about you." She had heard about the first date and was rather impressed the woman didn't going running in the other direction when she was kidnapped.

"And he's told me a bit about you. He mentioned vacation," she smiled.

"Oh, yeah," she nodded. "I'm paying for it. Any idea where?"

"We decided to go to New Zealand to visit an old friend of mine," John told her.

"Ah, that's a lovely country. Be sure to stray off the beaten path a little," she smiled. "Tours are boring anyway."

"I'll be sure to remember that," John said leading Sarah away from the look Sherlock was giving her.

"Do stop it, Sherlock," she told him looking over to him. "He has a girlfriend. He does have a life outside of you." He rolled his eyes and chose to ignore her. The door opened for their last guest, old friend of Jen's. He was a dark haired man at least five years her senior with a limp in his leg and an arrogance that rivaled Sherlock's.

"Hey, Ginny," he smiled at her making his way to her.

"Hey, Tom. How are you?" she asked watching him. He shrugged.

"Had to bail Sam out of debt again," he admitted with a frown.

"Fucking idiot," Jen replied as Mrs. Hudson showed up with a cake. "Mrs. Hudson!" Jen and Damon cheered.

"It's a nice place," Tom said looking around. "I recognize Myra, Molly, Damon, and Jack."

"The older woman is my landlady, Mrs. Hudson. The soldier is John, who lives upstairs, and on his arm, his girlfriend Sarah, and this," she said gesturing to Sherlock, "is Sherlock Holmes. He lives upstairs with John."

"Sherlock Holmes? I read the blog," Tom told him. "Are you really as good as they say?"

"Don't encourage him," she said, but he started already.

"You're a detective, private," he remarked looking over the man. "Business is good meaning you must have a moderate intelligence to get the job done. You've read my blog and not John's as you aspire to do what I do. Sad to say it's not possible. You enjoy being in the field, but recently you've gotten caught in the crossfire and was shot through the muscle in your left leg four weeks ago. You required surgery, which you had three weeks ago. You're having problems at home. Your brother is a gambler? No, artist. His debt just keeps increasing landing him in situations you have to pull him out of. Your wife wasn't happy by it causing more than one fight. She wants children; you already have to deal with your brother, so you separated four months ago. You've known Ginny for over ten years, and she has a deep dislike of your brother. Former lovers? No, that's not right. You were childhood friends, then? Yes, that's more likely. You grew up in the same town."

"Wow," Tom said amazed.

"All right?"

"Um… except the part with Ginny."

"Of course," he muttered bitterly. Every guess he had about her seemed to be wrong, and it bothered him to no end.

"Ginny and I know each other, because she was engaged to my brother," Tom told him. He turned to look at Ginny, who didn't seem to want to confirm or deny that.

"You were engaged?" Molly frowned hearing the conversation. It seemed no one knew she had been engaged at one point in her life. She sighed.

"It was years ago," Jen told her. "I met this guy: Samuel Owens. He was an artist, and well… I caught him bed with my sister, so I burned everything that Sam owned, and when he came home to me and called me a crazy bitch, I broke two ribs, an arm, and cracked his head open. I haven't talked to either since. I was stupid and naïve. Samuel Owens," she scoffed. "I know how to pick them."

"What about that one guy you were serious about?" Tom asked. "Chris?" Sherlock perked up a bit wondering if he would hear about the illusive cofounder of Shadow.

"Christopher and I… went our separate ways," she said slowly as if there was something more to that. "I need a drink."

"You don't drink," Molly reminded her.

"I need a smoke then," she said looking worn out. She hated her past being brought up; it unnerved her. Tom ended up talking to Molly leaving Jen and Sherlock to sit in their silent corner again. Jen was looking emotionally drained.

"What would you see in someone like that?" Sherlock asked.

"Does it matter?" she asked wondering why he would care at all over something silly like her relationships. If he'd like a list of men she been in a relationship with, he was getting none.

"You're of moderate intelligence," he replied. "It's just a curiosity that you would choose someone of such low standards."

"It's not your business," she remarked not taking an offense to his remark. Sherlock rarely meant offense and not that he was wrong, "but if you have to know, I met him when he was drawing me, and um… I don't know. We just sort of… it just sort of happened. I was lonely. My sister was distancing herself; my brother was in Rampton; my father was on his deathbed. I had to be mother, wife, and sister everyday all the time. It was exhausting. Sam was my escape, and when you're looking for an escape, everyone looks good. I look back, and I realize if I had married him… it would have been such a waste. I'm so much better than that. I liked his brother though, so we stayed friends."

"Did you love him?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"Why does it matter?" she asked again.

"I'm trying to understand the range of human emotions as it is rather useful for my work."

"I've only ever loved one man, and it wasn't Samuel Owens," she told him with a frown before she pulled her pack of cigarettes from her pocket. "I need to quit," she mumbled as she fumbled with her lighter.

"You need to quit," Damon told her from across the room confirming her own statement, but him telling her off irritated her.

"Yeah, yeah," she replied dully taking a drag from her cigarette. Sherlock moved his chair closer to her so he could breathe in her second hand smoke. Although she knew the answer, she was curious. "Have you ever been in love?" she asked blowing the smoke into his face. He inhaled in delight.

"Love is a dangerous disadvantage," he told her. She laughed not because she thought he was being stupid, but because she thought him right.

"It is," she said with a nod. "Do you want to know what became of the only man I've ever loved?" He was silent, so she told him anyway. "I put a bullet in his head, because he betrayed me."

"He was part of Shadow."

"He was the leader of Shadow until he lost his mind. Christopher Black, codename Fenris," she told him taking another drag on her cigarette, "the only man I'll love was a psychopath, who wanted to see the world kneel at his feet. It tore my heart in have to put the gun to his head, but… well, it doesn't matter now… now I deal with my problems like a normal person… I hold it in until I come crashing down."

"I think you do it with a bit more… zest," he said trying to find the right word. She was laughing now. It was amazing how well Sherlock Holmes handled her own chaos. It was a wonder really though she was sure because of his own insanity, he saw her as decently sane, or at least didn't judge her.

"Did I scare you?" she asked him honestly. She had lost many friends because of her episodes as they feared her, and the thought of Sherlock turning away from her- despite being far from friends- was utterly… well, terrifying.

"No, I found interesting," he told her making her though happy rather confused. "Feel free to have a breakdown in my flat anytime."

"Why did you find interesting?" she asked him curiously.

"You're very careful, Ginny," he informed her. "You hold a façade much better than most, but when you breakdown, it slips and shatters. At that moment, I see everything I've missed. In that singular moment, I noticed that you had a brother and sister that you worried deeply about, so much so it wears you down to the point where you often have panic attacks. I noticed that your insomnia has nothing to do with your BPD, but rather has to do with a constant fear that someone has a gun aimed at you. This tells me that the organization you worked for had unwanted attention, and that it wasn't just some small operation. Unwanted government or criminal attention?" he mused. "Criminal. You don't seem to have trouble with the government other than the likes of Mycroft, and everyone has trouble with Mycroft."

"And Robbie," she told him. "Robbie is like Mycroft. He helps the world turn, or so he says. Do you know what I see when I look at you, Sherlock?" she asked him.

"Hardly anything useful," he mused though he was honestly curious. What she could do wasn't something that could be learned though he desperately wanted to. It would be incredibly useful to be able to spot a psychopath just by looking into a crowd of people.

"That's right, I'm sure. I can't deduce people like you. Me knowing when someone is a psychopath or whether or not they're going to stab their children is instinct. I don't observe things; I just know things. When I look at you, it's rather odd really… I'm not sure if it a million:1 or 2:1."

"If?"

"If you'll one day be the reason people are being killed," she told him. "Sometimes… I just know it's not possible, and then other days, I'm surprised the odds haven't turned. I'm not sure if you're a great man unable to be a good man… or a great man who's afraid to be a good man." He stared at her with his steely gaze trying to understand her.

"What would make you think I'm afraid?" he asked her.

"Alone is safe," she told him blowing smoke at him again. "If you're a good man, you'll likely never be alone."

"Is that why you're not a good person?" he asked her. He didn't know if he honestly believed she wasn't a good person. He had seen her done good things, but there something about her that made him suspect that there was something in her that made her lack the quality good people like John Watson had. She didn't radiate goodness, but nor did she drip darkness. She was the lovely gray shade that he preferred.

"Yes," she said with a smile, "I like alone, because I can't be around too many people. Their emotions wear me down and exhaust me. There's only eight people in this flat, and I'm already about to have a breakdown." She finished her cigarette before throwing it in the ashtray. He wondered what it was like for her to always feel others' emotions. He could barely handle his own when they chose to reveal themselves. He felt some sort of sympathy for this particular ability. He imagined it would be hell.

"There's a body a few streets down that Lestrade wanted me to look at," he told her suddenly. "I've been looking for the opportunity to drag John away, but you'll do." She seemed to think on this thought for a moment before she responded.

"I'll meet you outside," she said getting out of her seat before she carefully and quietly slipped out the door. She hailed a taxi just as Sherlock came outside. They slid into the cab, and Sherlock gave the male cabbie the address.

* * *

A/N: Long sort of... filler chapter. But we get a murder next chapter! Yay murder... well then, not something to cheer about buuut yeah. That murderer and the murder will eventually lead us to find why Jen owes Sherlock. Anyway! Hope you enjoyed. Thanks to a guest reviewer and reviewers: and Semira Blake.

Review please, and I'll see you all next Saturday!


	19. Killing, Shooting, and Falling

"What sort of murder is it?" Jen asked Sherlock as they both sat in the cab as it made it's way to the crime scene. It should be interesting. It had, after all, been many years since Jen had been to a crime scene.

"Lestrade thinks it's a serial killer," he muttered, but his mind was on something else, which was very surprising as he generally loved serial killers. "Verown? Why do you have a different last name than your elder brother? Robert Verown?"

"I dropped my last name when I entered school," she informed him though she was unsure why it mattered, "on Robbie's insistence. He wanted me to drop my father's name and pick up mother's since Nikolas Verown wasn't my real father he thought it improper to have his name. I scoffed at the idea, but to appease him, I dropped my last name. Lorraine is my middle name."

"Hm," he muttered as he thought on this new detail. He looked at her up and down as if trying to see something that he was missing. He was always missing things about her, and it drove him made.

"What?" she asked.

"So," he said seeming to have come to a conclusion to whatever was mulling through his head, "you're elder half-brother is the German government; you're-"

"Who told you about Robbie?" she questioned cutting him off. She had been purposely vague about her family when she spoke about them, and she had no idea where he got this exact information from.

"Mycroft," he said as if it was obvious, and she supposed it was; his brother had a superfluous amount of information at his beck and call. "As I was saying, you're elder half-brother is the German government; you're younger half-brother is a serial killer-"

"Oh, figured that one out, did you?" she said interrupting him yet again. He found her interruptions at his attempts to show of his knowledge rather irritating

"Stop interrupting," he demanded making her roll her eyes, "and it was hardly difficult. I know your brother's first name is Peter, and his last name is likely Verown. Peter Verown is the serial killer known as The Carver. So what does your half-sister do?"

"Why the interest?" she questioned not comfortable with the questions about her family.

"I have a theory," he told her simply, and his simply answers were irritating her to no end. She was a bit curious about his theory though, so she answered his question.

"She mainly deals in blackmailing, scamming, theft, and the occasional murder," she told him with a sigh; her sister was always in some sort of trouble. "Why? What's your theory?"

"All of you are some form of sociopath-" She interrupted him again mainly just to annoy him.

"Don't be nice about it. We're all some form of psychopath. Say it as it is."

"Point being the only thing you have in common is your mother," he told her. "Has it occurred to you that your mother was likely a psychopath?" Jen laughed shaking her head at his deduction.

"Of course, she was a psychopath, Sherlock," she told him shaking her head. "Doesn't change a thing."

"I'm not saying it changes a thing," he told her. "My concern lies in your own mental state."

"You've seen the instability of my mental state," she reminded him. "It didn't seem to concern you before. Is this about my brother Peter?"

"He lived in the same house as you, Ginny," he replied. "Do you know he was killing people?" She stared at him blankly not really sure what to say. Should she tell Sherlock Holmes about her involvement in the murders? No, of course not. Who's to say he wouldn't use that against her? But he wasn't an idiot; he knew the answer to his question, and any attempt to lie would do no good.

"Yes," she replied simply, "but he was younger brother, my responsibility. I was trying to protect him even if he is a killer and a psychopath." His eyes seemed to be scanning her face for something else. "Are you disappointed in me?" She didn't know why, but she felt lower than low having him look down on her. It was a sickening feeling.

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "Practically the opposite actually," he said with a smirk. "You never cease to get boring." She couldn't help but laugh turning her head to the window as they fell into silence.

"Lestrade," she repeated turning her attention to the situation at hand. They had a murder and a case to focus on. "I think I used to work with him when I worked in Scotland Yard. He was just a sergeant at the time though that was nearly ten years ago."

"You were criminal profiler. Why did I never hear of you? I worked with Scotland Yard before then," he mused before he started to answer his own questions. "Ah, you were very private about it. You didn't care much for any attention as you would sure to get some. You were rather good."

"All correct," she said absently though she found it curious the conversation kept circulating back to her and her private life. "I like my privacy."

"You drew attention to yourself during the televised court trial," he reminded her.

"Yes, well, I'm a showoff, Sherlock," she told him rolling her eyes. They continued riding in silence toward the crime scene. There was nothing terrible about the silence as he didn't want her talking, and she found small talk to be the instrument of the devil.

The crime scene was an old abandoned building in the middle of London. It had perhaps been abandoned due to lack of want. It was gray, and not necessarily falling apart, but it certainly had the feeling many ruins do. There were police guarding off the area, and there were three police cars and an ambulance. A small gathering of people were watching the scene behind the yellow police tape.

"Oh great, the freak's here," a policewoman said spotting Sherlock. Jen made a tisking noise before without thinking replied.

"Well, a freak's better than an insecure whore with daddy issues," she said making the woman snap her attention to Jen. She bit her tongue not meaning to insult people right off the bat. She couldn't help it; she remembered the days Sherlock was called freak in school, and it was painful to remember for her. She could only imagine what he felt.

"Other one get sick of you?" the policewoman asked noting John was no longer with Sherlock.

"No, I threw him out a window," Jen said casually as she raised the police tape for them. "The skull told me to." Sally gave Jen a rather vicious look making Jen smile at her as if she did nothing wrong.

"Sally Donovan," Sherlock informed her as they continued on their way.

"Pleasant," she said sarcastically as they entered the house and made their way to the top floor.

"You've worked with Scotland Yard before. How are you with blood?" he asked her. "Good. Of course. You've killed men. That shouldn't surprise me." He opened the door to the room, and she understood why he asked her how she was with blood. A body laid precisely placed in the middle of the floor. Their hands and feet were nailed to the floor, and their chest was cracked open, so that the ribcage had been cracked out of place so that all the organs were completely visible. Only a cloth covered their genitals.

Sherlock expected her to gag or turn away, or maybe empty her stomach off to the side, but instead she grinned and mumbled, "Cool," before approaching the body. He couldn't help but be pleased by her reaction.

"Who're you?" Lestrade asked seeing her. She turned to him, and there was a flash of recognition. "I know you…"

"Yeah… uh… I used to work for Scotland Yard," she told him. "Doctor Jen Lorraine." She shook his hand.

"Oh, I remember. You were that brilliant criminal profiler," he said with a nod recalling the cases he had seen the woman work.

"Well, I hate to brag," she grinned.

"Ginny," Sherlock snapped as he already started looking at the body. She suspected he didn't like her being the center of attention and being called a genius.

"Sorry," she smiled as she looked at the body and watched Sherlock's talent at work. It was rather brilliant, what he did.

"Where's John?" Lestrade asked him used to the army Doctor instead of Jen.

"He's at a party," Jen said explaining the situation. "I needed some fresh air, and Sherlock suggested the crime scene."

"So this is a date?" Lestrade asked, and she quickly shook her head. Lestrade wasn't an idiot. He knew it wasn't, but he just couldn't resist the urge to tease Holmes being with a woman.

"Oh, God no," Jen said not catching his joking manner as she was too focused on watching Sherlock make his deductions. "I hate him, and he hates me."

"You are the bane of my existence," Sherlock kindly informed Jen as he continued his observation.

"I take pride in that," she replied.

"What can you tell me about the victim?" Sherlock asked her. He was intrigued at her instinctual ability to tell a person's psychological state with a glance, though he found it equally frustrating that she didn't bother to put any science in it. It was all just primitive instinct. However, she had never been proven wrong when it comes to that instinct. Jen glanced at the woman's face.

"452-437," she told him.

"For?"

"She was a push away from killing herself," she replied leaning down to look at the woman. Sherlock paused and looked at Jen. "She hasn't been sleeping, but it's only recently. She hasn't always had sleeping problems."

"What sort of conclusion can be drawn from that?"

"I'm sure you know."

"It's good to have a fresh perspective," he informed her. She rolled her eyes before she tried to decide the reason for this.

"Perhaps… the murderer was contacting the victim before death, but then why wouldn't she just got to the police? Too scared?" Jen asked him.

"No. Something was being threatened," Sherlock said absently. "Someone was being threatened. Where's the child?" Sherlock asked Lestrade standing.

"What child?" he asked.

"The child! Her child! She has C-section scar right there!" he told him frustrated pointing at an old scar on her skin. "It's approximately five years old meaning she has a five year old child! She's not married, and she's a secretary! Time of death was approximately seven in the evening! It was unlikely that she left her child at home, so she was, therefore, with the victim at the time of the incident, so where is she!?" Lestrade looked caught on the spot before he quickly went to report this. Sherlock had a particular look on his face that said 'everyone in Scotland Yard are idiots.'

"How do you know the child's a she?" Jen asked him curious in his thought process.

"Tattoo on her wrist: Callie," Sherlock told her absently gesturing to the woman. "It's the same age as the scar."

"Do you… do you think the child is alright?" she asked him.

"I believe she got away," he informed Jen. "This serial killer has no sympathy. If he had gotten to the girl, he would have killed her and put her in the same spot as her mother."

"So then where is she?" she muttered looking around the room trying to find something to point her to the location of the child.

"You're a psychiatrist," Sherlock said shining the small flashlight he was holding in her eyes. "Surely you had some sort of training in childhood psychology."

"Well, uh… yes, I do," she informed him flinching at the light. "Children, if they feel in danger, they'll go to a place that they've felt safe or where they were happiest. Likely, the child would have gone home."

"Did she have identification on her?" Sherlock asked as Lestrade entered the room again. His mind was already wheeling with possibilities.

"Yes. Her name is Margaret Krow," Lestrade told him, which caused Sherlock to stand and leave the room followed by Jen. She watched as Sherlock quickly started typing something in his phone. He hailed a cab without even looking. She would never know how he could hail a cab so easily.

"Where are we going?" she asked him as they slid in the taxi.

"You're going to Margaret Krow's house, and I'm going to Saint Bart's," he told her before giving the cabbie the address to Margaret Krow's.

"Isn't that a bad idea?" she asked him with a frown. He was putting her in immediate danger, lovely. "There's a serial killer out there-"

"Are you afraid?" he asked her putting his phone in his pocket. "No, you're not, and you also think as I do: the chance of the killer being there is highly unlikely. Judging from the fighting you've done at Damon's little warehouse, I would assume you could hold your own in a fight if the situation called for it." She didn't ask how he knew about the fight ring.

"And if I told you to go fuck yourself?" she asked him with a frown.

"I would tell you that your lack of intellectual discourse is appalling," he informed her making her roll her eyes again. He could be seriously insufferable.

"How did I even get dragged into this?" she muttered. It was a rhetorical question, but of course, Sherlock answered it anyway.

"You couldn't stand the flood of emotions in your flat, so you came with me, because I'm static to you, and you find that to be rather alleviating."

"You're such a know-all," she sighed leaning back.

"My knowledge-"

"Sherlock, shut up," she told him again. "I'm not sure which is worse listening to you talk or dealing with a storm of emotions from twenty people." She crossed her arms and looked out the window ignoring him as he insulted her to get the last word. She didn't even hear what he said to her; likely insulted her intelligence.

"Get out," Sherlock told her as the cab came to a halt.

"Glady," she said sliding out of the cab and slamming the door. A flickering of annoyance crossed his features as the cab drove off. Jen turned to the house. It was a decent house squished between to others in central London. Jen briefly wondered if she would even get in. However, upon twisting the nob to the door, she found it to be suspiciously unlocked. The house was quiet with no signs of life though she knew that could be a lie, so she wandered through the house spying nothing of significance, though she's sure if Mr. Holmes was there he would strongly disagree.

She made her way up the stairs and thoroughly searched each room before she made it to the child's room. It was obvious that Sherlock was right. It was a girl's room with the walls splashed a less than tasteful pink and lavender. There were clothes thrown about, and before she set foot in the room to disturb it, she sent a picture to Sherlock and the proceeded to look around the room for anything important. Her phone rang out in the empty house.

**Get out. May be dangerous. –SH**

**Why? You said the chances of the killer being in the house were unlikely. –Jen**

**I lied. –SH**

She looked around her with a frown. He didn't lie; he was just wrong. He deduced that from the picture she sent him? How could he possibly know that unless he could directly see the murder? She looked around again to see if she could see what he saw, but she saw nothing. She couldn't deduce like Sherlock could.

**I'm not leaving until I find something that could lead us to the missing child. –Jen **

**Don't be stupid. –SH**

**I am stupid. You should know that by now. –Jen**

Jen started her search by carefully checking every crevice of the child's room. She heard a crash from outside the room and paused before she decided to follow the sound of where the noise was coming from. She wasn't sure if it would be stupid of her to call out to the noise maker or if she should remain quiet. It all depends if it was the child or the murderer. If Sherlock believed the murderer may be in the house, she thought it best not to speak out. She wished she had her gun, but it remained at home in her purse. _Stupid, _she thought miserably. Upon realizing the sound came from the kitchen, she quickly ducked in the kitchen. She saw no one, so the first thing she did was pick up a butcher knife from a holder on the counter.

The sound of footsteps toward the entrance from the kitchen entrance caused her to swing around slashing out. Sherlock jumped back.

"Watch what you're doing with that," he snapped.

"Maybe you shouldn't creep up on me," she told him annoyed.

"Ginny, look out!" he threw her down as four gun shots rang through the house followed by a crash through the window. He would have jumped up and gone after him if Jen hadn't let out a shout of pain. He was distracted by the girl clutching her leg in pain. "You've been shot," he said assessing her leg.

"No shit, Sherlock," she replied gasping.

"We need to get you to a hospital," he told her.

"NO!" she shouted shaking her head in panic; her hatred for hospitals had no bounds. "You try and take me to a hospital, and I'll shoot you!"

"You need to be treated," he told her irritated. "I suppose John could-"

"No, no, I have someone who will do it for me. Help me up," she said, and he stood leaning down to help her. She put her arm around his shoulder, but the height ratio was too different, and it was causing her even more pain as she hobbled to the wall.

"This isn't going to work," she panted. She sucked up her pride. "Carry me."

"I told you you're stupid," he replied not liking the idea any more than she did, but he picked her up and carried her out the front door. It took him a minute to hail a cab from them. He was surprisingly careful with lifting her into the cab. She quickly gave the cab the address as Sherlock slid in next to her. They were silent the whole way as pain was shooting through her body, and Sherlock wasn't an idiot. He may not know emotion, but he at least knew pain. He knew saying anything remotely unpleasant to her would earn him another slap across the face, and if he was honest, the first time hurt enough.

They arrived at a small home just a not terribly far from Baker Street. Sherlock, by request, carried her to the door before putting her down. She slammed against it knocking loudly. A waitress Sherlock recognized from a café near Jen's old flat answered the door. He suspected that the person that Jen was trying to see was a boyfriend of some sort, but he was wrong.

"Amber," she said huskily as she was losing a lot of blood. "Any chance you could be Accalia for me?"

Amber, or perhaps the name Accalia was better in this case, pulled the door open, and Jen hobbled in with Sherlock's help. "Follow me," she said coolly moving to the back of the room not questioning Jen's state. Sherlock wondered how often Jen came here. Accalia threw open the door to her basement, and again with Sherlock's help, they descended. To Sherlock's surprise, which he found irritating, there was a rather impressive hospital like area before them.

Jen pulled herself up onto a metal medical table. Accalia sighed before she leaned down to look at the bullet wound. Sherlock threw himself into a chair nearby as he watched them both.

"That bullet's really lodge in there." Amber rubbed the back of her neck. "Shadow's been disbanded nearly four years, and you still managed to get shot! What the actual hell, Lupa!?"

"I was investigating a murder scene," she told her not enjoying the third degree.

"The bullet's staying in. There would be too much blood trying to pull it out."

"I need that bullet," Sherlock told Accalia. "It's a crucial to my case."

"Didn't you see the shooter?" Jen asked. He shook his head.

"It was too dark. All I know is his approximate height and weight," he told her. Accalia looked between the two.

"You alright with that, Lupa? I'm going to have to cut into you," she said waving a scalpel.

"Do you have anything for the pain?" she asked. Accalia seemed to think about that before she stepped behind her to a cabinet.

"You're part of Shadow," Sherlock asked looking her up and down. He hadn't predicted she was dangerous or a doctor when he first saw her. He's seen this waitress before, but nothing ever struck him as different. She was ordinary, or he thought she was ordinary.

"Yes," Accalia replied looking at him as if she was searching for something in him. Perhaps she was trying to decide if he was a threat.

"You won't be able to deduce her," Jen told him as he continued to make an attempt to find what he had missed. "You wouldn't be able to deduce any member of Shadow. They're all like me."

"Like you," he muttered in slight disbelief that there were more like Jen, more he couldn't deduce. "How many members of Shadow live in London?"

"Erm… out of the twenty-one of us that formed Shadow…"

"I believe there are only thirteen of us left," Accalia told her.

"Thirteen?" Jen frowned. "I killed Fenris. Dolph was executed if I recall correctly."

"It was bound to happen. She wasn't exactly stable," Accalia said without a care. The members of Shadow weren't all friends; quite a few of them hated each other.

"Cana and Boris were both killed by Ursa, but that's all I remember," Jen said as she had a rather grim flash of finding their mangled bodies. "Who else died?"

"Adolph, Bardou, Channon, and Vilkas are all dead," Accalia told her. "Bullet to the heart."

"When and who?" she questioned not having heard about any of this.

"Not long after your suppose death," Accalia told her finally starting a morphine drip as she pushed a needle into Jen's arm. "Tate thinks… well, he think it's Ursa again."

"Ursa's dead," Jen muttered starting to get woozy from the drip.

"So are you," Accalia reminded her as she pulled up a chair to work on her leg.

"Ursa's an enemy of Shadow," Sherlock said needing confirmation. He was sitting a yard away watching and listening to them talk. He never got an answer from Jen about the number of members that live in London, but he suspected it was a fair number.

"Ursa is my Jim Moriarty," Jen muttered to him as Accalia tied off her leg to stop circulation. "She's smart, and she can do what I can do, but…"

"But Ursa then uses it to her advantage," Accalia finished for her as she made the incision into her leg. "She twists people based on their psychological state. She's broken people with words that drip from her lips. She used Fenris to break Lupa, and it broke Shadow apart. She won."

"I killed her," Jen muttered now lying back and looking at the ceiling. Her mind was getting increasingly hazy from the morphine. "I put a bullet in her head."

"She could fake anything," Accalia reminded her. "She's smart."

"Then, why hasn't she come after me?" Jen asked her. "What is she waiting for?"

"She thinks you're dead, Lupa," she told her with a sigh. "Everyone does, and even if you were standing in front of her, she wouldn't know it was you. You've changed. You're soft now. You're good." Accalia was teasing her, and it irritated Jen, who was currently drugged from the morphine.

"Shut up, Accalia," she told her quietly putting her arm over her eyes. "Are the others safe?"

"We're all careful. Adolph was a showoff. Channon always followed him like a puppy. Bardou had a big mouth, and Vilkas was arrogant. They all got picked off rather easy. The rest of us are better at blending into crowds." Jen fell silent as she wasn't sure she could form many words in her drugged state.

"What do you know about Jim Moriarty?" Sherlock suddenly asked Accalia. She shrugged as she finally got the bullet out from Jen's leg. She was bleeding a lot, but it was slowing down.

"I've heard the name thrown around," Accalia admitted. "He's a consulting criminal… If you want information, you should go to our friend, Ulmar. He knows everything about everyone. I don't know his real name though-"

"Brown," Jen muttered. "David Brown."

"How do you know everyone's name?" Accalia asked irritated. "Our names were supposed to be private. I didn't know yours until you showed up at my door the first time you were in London since your supposed death. Three in the God damn morning, and I have a dead girl ringing my doorbell with a knife wound to the side, because she was street fighting."

"I was bored," she replied rolling her eyes. "As for the question, I have… family in higher places. I found it necessary to find if I could trust my comrades."

"Always so trusting," Accalia muttered sarcastically as she bandaged Jen's leg. "You're done." Jen slid off the medical table fighting the morphine, and Accalia handed her a pair of crutches and two pill bottles. Sherlock had already swiped the bullet. "One's for the infection you're sure to get, the other is for pain. Don't put pressure on the leg."

"Sure," Jen said slipping the medication in her bag before taking the crutches. She hobbled her way to the stairs with Sherlock behind her as she half crashed her way up the stairs. She had one useless leg and had morphine shooting through her system, but she reached Accalia's front door without Sherlock's help, which was a minor improvement. "Thanks, Accalia," Jen smiled.

"Listen," she said slowly; here was worry in her eyes, "be careful who you trust. Ursa… she'll do worse than kill you."

"I know," Jen told her as she opened the door, "but Ursa's dead." Jen turned away and practically tripped down the steps. Her mind was filled with questions and denial, and she had nothing to put it at ease. She looked to Sherlock. "Let's um... let's walk back to Baker Street. I'm sure you have questions."

"And you'll answer them?" he asked her.

"I'll answer any questions you have about Shadow," she told him as they started walking down the street.

"How and why did Shadow form?" he asked.

"Christopher Black, also known as Fenris, was the founder of Shadow," she told him. "He collected people like me, people who couldn't be seen."

"But you knew before Shadow," he mused. She nodded.

"I met him when I was fifteen," she replied. "He was... different, and he left his mark on me. Showed me things, I never would have believed. He changed me, and he sought me out when I was working for the government. We became lovers and started Shadow as a way to bring control back to the people. My position in Shadow wasn't anything big. I helped form shadow, but I didn't have a lot of involvement. I was sort of just figure there. I dealt with a lot of the governments as I was good at negotiating, and they trusted me with my brother being who he was."

"How did it end?"

"Ursa, she wanted to watch Shadow crash and burn, but more importantly, she wanted me to fall."

"Fall?" he asked.

"It's Shadow's code for complete annihilation of an enemy. It's not about them dying. It's about them suffering. You strip them of everything that makes them a person. We take their job; we take their name; we aim a gun at loved ones' heads; and we give them a choice: kill yourself or watch as we kill them. It destroys a man, and in those moments, you learn what a man is really made of. I've seen men grovel begging to just pull the trigger. It's not death; it's so much worse." Jen paused and took a breath. "Ursa took everything from me. She turned most of Shadow against me; she turned Chris against me; she turned anyone who cared for me against me; I was alone. And she gave me a choice. Shot Chris, or shot myself. I shot him, though by then his mind had been twisted to her will. It still killed me. I shot her down, and in turn, faked my own death. With Chris dead, Shadow fell apart, and the members scattered. They find out the truth eventually, but I remain dead to most of them. That's not my life anymore." She paused again before speaking. "I have your brother to thank for my life now. I don't know why, but he was sympathetic, and he gave me my life back. I still hate him though. He's a pompous pain in my ass."

"You have no idea," Sherlock muttered making her laugh. "So one last question: why did Ursa want you to fall?" Jen shrugged.

"Said her life fell apart because of me," she muttered. "Maybe it's true. I really couldn't tell you. I didn't really know much about Ursa other than she's a psychopath." They reached Baker Street ending the conversation. Jen entered the home followed by Sherlock and a set of feet came running up the stairs from Jen's new flat.

"Where in the hell have you two been?!" Damon shouted before he finally reached the landing. He spotted Jen's leg right away.

"What the hell happened?! Your leg! Sherlock, what did you do!?" John shouted running down the stairs from his flat as well.

"Made up. Had a snog in the bushes. Got shot. You know, usual night," she replied with a mischievous grin making Sherlock give a particularly displeased look at her before he started walking up the steps to his flat. John lingered.

"You alright?" he asked being the ever concern Doctor.

"Just a little crime scene," she told him with a nod before John turned around and ran back up after his flat mate. "Everyone leave?"

"A while ago," Damon told her. "They were all taking bets on what happened to you and Sherlock. John won."

"Lovely," she muttered. "Well, I'm still a little um… high from the morphine, so I'm going to bed early. You?"

"I have to go meet this… let's call him a coworker," he admitted, and she finally noticed he was in one of his very expensive suits that he used to impress people.

"Who?" she asked as she started fixing his poorly done tie. She shook her head. He could run a criminal empire but couldn't tie a damn knot.

"Not your business," he said kissing her cheek gently as she finished. "Good night."

"Night," she muttered as she hobbled down the stairs to head to her new bed.

* * *

A/N:Alright, so we have more questions answered, and more questions added to the pile. All will be answered in time. And sorry if the last chapter was riddle with errors and/or had a superfluous amount of unnecessary information. I was in a rush and didn't get a chance to edit.

Also, you may have noticed, the chapters have been getting increasingly longer. I decided since my updates are only once a week to split up the chapters less. Do you prefer long or shorter chapters?

Anyway, hope you enjoyed! Thanks to reviewers: 252020 and hannahhobnob See you all next Saturday! Review please!


	20. Why Ginevra Never Really Owed Sherlock

"Have fun in New Zealand," she smiled at John as he held Sarah's hand at the airport. Jen hugged the man she had beginning to consider a good friend.

"Watch him for me. Make sure he eats, and gets some sort of interaction and not just the skull," John whispered looking over her shoulder at Sherlock, who lingered looking rather displeased with the whole situation. He didn't want to be without John for a whole two weeks, though he would never admit that, and he would rather be anywhere but the damned airport filled with people rushing about not seeing only being.

"I'm the Bane of his Existence, John," she told him with a chuckle, "so of course I'm going to bother him until he's ready to throw me out a window." He laughed and pulled away leaving her and Sherlock with one last wave as him and Sarah headed off to the gate.

"He told you to watch me. I don't need your help," Sherlock told her as she walked to his side as they made their way quickly and efficiently out of the airport. Both would rather leave the crowd behind.

"Now, Mr. Holmes," she said brightly, "what sort of pest would I be if I didn't bother you daily?" She grinned up at her, and he was being taken in by her optimistic behavior. He had a feeling that it was bad news for him. "No, no. Expect me. I intend to bother you profusely."

"Don't be surprised if you fall out a window," he told her seriously as they walked toward the street away from the airport. Of course, she feared Holmes as much as she feared cats. Come to think of it, he was a bit like a cat.

"Hm, well, then I'm confident to say that you may just drown in the Thames," she replied as he opened the door for a cab and allowed her to slid in first. Sherlock gave the cabbie the address, and they were off as they continued to argue about the imminent murder that was bound to take place without John Watson there.

"I have roughly a foot on you," he told conversation was shockingly casual despite speaking of each others' demise. "I'm fairly confident at my chances against you."

"I've beaten guys stronger, taller, and more able than you," she happily informed him. "I think I would win."

"Unlikely," he replied. "I may not be as strong as any of your opponents, but I'm certainly more intelligent than them. This gives me an advantage over my opponent as I could easily spot any weakness that they should have."

"You can't read me," she reminded him. "And I'm fairly certain my anger would win over your intellect."

"We could settle this now," he told her. She rolled her eyes at the challenge immediately deeming it a very poor idea.

"I think if John came back, and we were both seriously injured we would both end up shot," she told him looking out the window as her mind went to the army doctor and his relationship with Holmes. They're relationship certainly wasn't normal, but she supposed that it was the most normal relationship Sherlock had ever had. It was rather beneficial for him, a man trying to be a God, to see that he was human and nothing could change that. She wondered how much it had changed him and how much more it would continue to change him. It was the surprisingly protective side of Sherlock that surprised her. He was protective of John, and just once, years ago, he was protective of her. She wouldn't forget that. "He's very protective of you… as you are to him," she mused.

"Well I wouldn't want to go back only talking to the skull," Sherlock replied. Though it was an excuse, and she knew he felt more than he would ever give away. He would continue to divorce himself from his feelings. "Surprisingly dull." Sherlock's phone rang, and he took it from his pocket before glancing down at his text. He immediately changed the address of their destination.

"Where are we going?" she asked him with a frown. It was Monday; she had things to do that didn't involve being with Sherlock Holmes all day. She wasn't John's replacement.

"I just told the cabbie. Were you not listening?" he asked her as if it was obvious.

"I meant why," she said making a face at him for his cheeky behavior.

"There's been another murder," he told her.

"It's Monday, Sherlock," she told him flatly. "I have work." She was sure she'd rather hang herself than spend her entire day with him though maybe it wouldn't be too bad. He was growing on her... in a way that a parasite would.

"No, you don't," he replied simply. "I've already called your secretary. She's rearranged all your appointments. You're on vacation until John gets back."

"What!?" she asked outrage though not surprised that he did something like that without asking her permission. "Sherlock! You can't just do that without asking! I had plans for those vacation days! Damon and I were going to go to vacation in Italy! He was going to take me to see an opera at Teatro alla Scala!"

"It can wait," he replied, and she huffed crossing her arms and pouting as she leaned back. If he was going to be a child, she was going to be a child. Fighting fire with fire.

"You owe me a trip to the opera," she whined bitter at him.

"I'll put it under the list of things I owe you," he said equally bitter making her twitch.

"Oh! This again!? Sherlock, you don't owe me anything!" She told him with a sigh. "We've discussed this. You didn't interfere when I had to deal with Moriarty, and now, we're even."

"You were never in any danger to begin with, and you know that as well as I do," he told her quickly. "You had a plan the whole time." How long had he known that, and did he know what her plan had been? Did he know what happened between herself and Moriarty? She supposed it didn't matter at the moment.

"That's not the point! Sherlock, you," she paused and looked at the cabbie before she changed her sentence so that she wouldn't reveal too much, "you saved my life twice." She muttered it ever so gently as if she was ashamed that he had done so much for her.

"I told you Connor's interest in you that night was my fault," Sherlock told her.

"How could it be your fault? Connor was a psychopath. He was bound to snap and start killing people at any time," she told him. Sherlock sighed. He didn't want to tell her, but perhaps, it was for the best. He needed her to understand the debt. He needed her to understand she never owed him. She needed to know about his one regret. One that he had, on multiple occasions, desperately attempted to erase from his mind palace. One that made him obsessed with paying back the original debt he owed her.

"He already had begun killing people," Sherlock told her recalling that not with very vivid detail. "I had been looking into the murder of Anne Thomas. Do you remember that?"

"Yes," Jen said slowly nodding recalling how the girl's murder had spooked everyone. "Anne Thomas was the girl who was raped and murdered near the school, but… they had caught the murderer."

"Doctor Shehan was not the murderer," Sherlock told her. He wasn't surprised she never bothered to figure out the verdict on the murder. In honesty, he was a bit surprised she remember the murder at all. "Connor was, and I approached him about it…"

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes didn't bother to knock on the door to Connor Waite's room. He knew that if he did, Connor would slam it right in his face. He had always disliked Sherlock from day one, and it only got worse as Ginny's interest in him increased. He was possessive over her, he noted, but she wasn't stupid enough to become involved in a boy like Connor, and perhaps that made him angrier than before. She refused to sleep with him when she's slept with half the school and staff. Instead, Sherlock picked his lock and let himself in. _

_The first thing he did when he entered the dorm was look for the gun he knew Connor had. He found it in a small end table drawer. He took the bullets out and loaded them with blanks. He wasn't an idiot. If you were going to approach someone claiming they were a murderer make sure they didn't have a weapon to use against you. _

_"What the hell are you doing here, Freak?" a boy with blonde hair asked him stumbling from his room. He has heard the commotion as Sherlock looked for the gun. He was a tall, athletic boy Sherlock's age, fifteen, who had won the genetic lottery. He was strung out from -what Sherlock could tell- heroin in a chair in his sitting room._

_"Anne Thomas," Sherlock told him calmly. He was on something of a high. Not from a drug, no from a case. He had found something that kept him wired, and it was solving this intricate puzzle. This was Sherlock Holmes first case knowing that this is what he wanted to do, an advising- no scratch that, that's Ginny's stupid phrasing- a consulting detective. "She was the girl raped and murder in town. The police are claiming that it was Doctor Shehan, but they're wrong. It was you."_

_"Think you could prove that, freak?" he asked not scared of Sherlock's knowledge. Psychopath's were like that. They were confident that they were more clever than the average person. They were confident no one would be able to catch them and if they did, what proof did they have?  
_

_"Yes, I do," he replied as he moved closer to Connor. "Anne Thomas put up a fight against her attacker. She scratched and clawed against him. You have a wound healing on your bicep that's two weeks, four days old. Anne Thomas was killed exactly two weeks, four days ago."_

_"And? That doesn't make me a murderer," Connor told him coldly listening to Sherlock Holmes put together the puzzle.  
_

_"No, it doesn't," Sherlock told him. "What makes you a killer is your psychopathic behavior?"_

_"My behavior?" he questioned sure he had no idea what he was talking about.  
_

_"You're a psychopath, Connor," he replied. "You don't care that you killed that girl. All you care is that you controlled every little aspect of her death." Connor's lips twitched into a sadist's smile no longer wishing to deny it. He would rather glout.  
_

_"Yeah," he laughed. "I raped and stabbed her. She screamed the whole time begging me to stop, to let her go. She would give me anything... everything, but I didn't want anything."_

_"You wanted that one flash of power," Sherlock told him ecstatic rather than sickened by the whole thing. "You've made a mistake; you've been caught." Connor laughed again before growing icy and quite unstable.  
_

_"Who in the hell would believe you over me?" Connor asked him slowly as he stood. He was over a foot taller than Sherlock and had a quite a bit of weight on him. "I'm Connor Waite, all-star athlete, brilliant student. I'm charming and likeable. You? You're some stupid, know-all freak, who's as likeable as a cockroach. Who would even listen to you?"_

_"Ginny would," Sherlock told him. It was mistake. He shouldn't have told him that, but he did, because he wanted to win. He wanted to be smug. "Ginny was the one who told me that you were a psychopath, and if I told her what really happened to Anne Thomas, she would listen and agree. Ginny may not be popular among the adults, but among the student, she is their queen, and with her word, down you'd fall." Connor paused. He was calculating this whole thing. He was clever and knew Sherlock was right. His face twisted. Sherlock wondered if this was such a good idea. _

_"You're right," Connor said with a nod as he went to pull his gun from the drawer. "Guess, I'll have to kill her," he shrugged as he passed Sherlock. "Ah, well. At least I'll have some fun with her… finally!" Connor slammed the door behind Sherlock leaving him wide-eyed and paled. What did he just do?_

* * *

She slapped him across the face as hard as she could. It left a red mark, and he could see the anger threatening to overwhelm her. He lifted his head to meet her eyes again, and she slapped him across the face again.

"I can't… you… cabbie!" she shouted at the cab driver. "Change of address. I want to go to warehouse thirteen."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied as he changed directions.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked rubbing his cheek.

"To Damon's fight ring," she told him sharply. "I'm so angry at you; I'm ready to fucking- Fucking fuckedy fucking fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" She was on the verge of another episode as she pulled at her hair and resisted the urge to slap him again. "You want to know who's going to win in a fight! You and I are going to find out today! I'm going to beat the living fuck out of you, because right now, my hatred for you has no bounds!"

"You're still healing from your bullet wound," he reminded her. It had only been two days. She was still on crutches; he didn't want to do that. It was bad enough that he had to relive that night as if he was going through the events again, but now, he got to see how much it killed her to know the truth.

"I don't care!" she shouted not calming down. "I could kick your ass with both hands tied behind my back and both my legs broken!"

"Ginny, you need to calm down." Sherlock Holmes earned a third slap across the face. He resisted the urge to wince. He wasn't sure he would be able to feel his cheek for days, but was immediately proven wrong as she slammed him again unable to resist the urge.

"Don't tell me to fucking calm down! It's been over fifteen years, Holmes! I thought I was in some sort of life debt to you, and it turns out, Connor nearly killing me that night was due to your arrogant, narcissistic, inconsiderate personality! Do you even care I was almost killed just so that you would be right!? No, of course not, because you're Sherlock Holmes!" The cab came to a halt, and Jen quickly- as quickly as one with crutches could- got out fuming as she slammed the door. Sherlock followed her after paying the cabbie. The warehouse was filled with screaming fans and many of them recognized Jen and grinned and cheered at her. "Damon!" she shouted seeing her criminal of a flat mate cheering at two large opponents in the ring. He looked to her with a frown before he grinned.

"Who are you fighting today, love!?" he shouted noticing the anger in her eyes. He wasn't even remotely concerned by the bullet wound. Who was he to prevent her from one of the only outlets that kept her from being a murderous serial killer? She jabbed an angry finger at Sherlock Holmes, who looked to Damon looking at him with a mix of unsure amusement and bitterness. There was a loud ding signaling that one of the fighters in the ring one. The crowd cheered, and Damon jumped over the barrier to the fight ring. "Ladies and gentlemen! Change in the lineup!" he announced. "Our lovely Lupa has decided to fight while sporting a bullet wound on her leg!" There was a cheer from the crowd as Jen jumped over the barrier to the fight ring. Her crutches were left behind as well as her shoes, purse, and jacket. She would be fighting in jeans in a sweater. Lovely. _Better than Sherlock's suit_, she supposed. "And her opponent, you ask? None other than Sherlock Holmes!" There was huge wave of excitement rushing from the crowd as Sherlock casually opened the gate to the fight ring and stepped in to face her and her anger. "Begin the fight and the betting!" Damon shouted before jumping back over the barrier. He turned to witness the fight.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked her bored as he looked around at everyone before his eyes settled on her face that was contorted into something one could liken to madness. He'd only seen that look on her face once, and it was during their school days, and it ended badly for the man facing her. "You're at a slight disadvantage," he told her glancing at her leg that she felt nearly all her weight off of. "I won't hold back."

"I count on it," she replied, and she let the anger that she was trying desperately hold onto in the cab wash over her and flood her system. He could see things he could never see before in that moment. She was an angry person, that didn't surprise him, but what did was that more than anyone else, she was angry and disappointed with herself? Why? He wondered as he dodged an attack from her only to have her swipe his feet out from under him. He fell, and quickly rolled from one of her kicks, but she was fast even on a bad leg. He was on all fours about to stand when she kicked him hard in the ribs sending him slamming into the barrier a foot away from him and likely successfully breaking a rib or two. He stood quickly before she could attack again. He had to get serious if he stood a chance to even make it out of the ring alive. He held his hand out for a moment's pause, and she graciously allowed it despite the anger still flooding through her, but he did note the anger was slowly being drained out of her an replaced with adrenaline and excitement from the crowd.

Sherlock slowly took off his jacket and threw it over to where his winter jacket and scarf currently sat. He then proceeded to roll up his sleeves. He nodded to her allowing for the fight to continue. He was more careful and observant this time. He used her injury to his advantage often switching places so she was forced to put more pressure on her injured leg. He was having trouble reading her, but he could tell she was prone to concussions, and the first thing he did when he got the opportunity was smash her head with his knee. She stumbled but did not fall. She was even tougher than he thought. _So this is what she does in her spare time? Interesting, _he mused but stopped thinking such thoughts as Jen's sharp jabs broke another rib but was aiming for a more crucial area: his spine. He grabbed her wrist and snapped it backward. She didn't even flinch at the sickening snap as she twisted, so they both fell to the ground with his hand still on her wrist. The forearm of her free arm was pushing hard against his esophagus forcing the breath out of his lungs.

"Over fifteen years, I've held this stupid guilt for what happened," she hissed angry. "I thought I owed you the world, and it turns out that you were the reason I had to… I saved your life! I was nice to you when no one else was, and you threw me under a bus just to be smug!" Sherlock gained a little sense back and managed to twist his leg so that he was able to kick her off him. He let out a gasp before quickly get to his feet as Jen did. "And I'm sure you don't even care!" she shouted before she went on the offense again, but he had become quick against her attacks. He had analyzed her skill. He dodge her initial attack and hit her hard in the ribs cause her to cough and gag as blood slipped out of her mouth. She was going down, and she knew it, so with the last of her strength, she turned and smashed her fist hard into his face shattering his jaw. He fell first, and Jen barely lingered any longer before she fell as well right next to him. The crowd's cheering was deafening. Neither was unconscious, but neither could get up and since Sherlock fell first, Jen was by default the winner not that either of them cared.

"If it's any consolation," Sherlock said though it was a bit hard to talk given the blow to the jaw, "'throwing you under the bus' as you say is one of the few things I regret. I was, for lack of a better word, a prick."

"Much hasn't changed," she muttered turning her head to look at him. He turned to look at her. They just stared at each other; she was trying to let her own emotions dissipate so that she could feel whatever he was feeling at the moment. He rarely expressed his emotions, and she grasped at them to try and understand. He meant what he said; he felt overwhelming regret for what he did.

"Alright, alright, enough!" Damon shouted at the both of them jumping over the barrier to them. "Get the hell out of my ring! I have another fight schedule!" Jen looked up at Damon and then back to Sherlock, who was watching her looking uncertain on what was about to happen as she was sending mixed look on her face. She was still trying to understand him. She was staring at him reading him in a way that she never could. She realized that he never meant to hurt her; he never meant to hurt people. He just didn't understand emotion and sensitivity. How could she be angry when he felt such regret and was too ignorant at the time to know better? She shouldn't have started this; John was going to kill her. For some reason, the thought broke her anger and confusion as she fell into sudden laughter making Sherlock and Damon give her a rather confused look.

"What are we doing?" she asked him laughing. "John's gone for not even a day, and we end up kicking the shit out of each other." She was now laughing hysterically at the whole situation, and her laugh was infectious as Sherlock being laughing too. It was rather ridiculous if one thought about it. They went from teasing each to threatening each other to actually trying to kill each other, and now, now they were lying in the middle of a fight ring, Damon's fight ring, sporting too many injuries laughing so hard they were crying and looks the audience was giving them was making it worse. All because John went on vacation, and he wasn't there to be their referee.

"Okay, okay, get out," Damon told her, and Sherlock picked himself up before holding out a hand to Jen, who took it still laughing.

"Let's get to the crime scene, yeah?" she said grinning up at Sherlock. He looked down at her with a softness she rarely ever saw in him, but it faded as quickly as it came as he became passive again and nodded in agreement.

* * *

A/N: Ah, so I had a bit of time today and decided to post a bit early. Where I'm at it's about an hour and a half until Saturday, close enough.

So, a bit about that chapter as always, so we see a huge part of why Sherlock always insisted he owed Jen a debt, and she never owed him, BUTit is NOT what created the original debt. What started the debt for Sherlock will be revealed much later after the Scandal in Belgravia arch (which of course I'll be covering. How could I not cover Irene!?) which will, if you're curious, take place after the murderer for their case is solved and after what I've deemed as the Meet the Family Arch (loads of fun there). Also, we have yet to see exactly what caused Jen to believe she owed Sherlock (though you may have a good guess by now). That will be found out with the next chapter, something to look forward to. =D Also, if curious, this story will end up around 50 chapters I'm thinking. I have about 100 pages left in word, and have started the sequel- which will take place after Reichenbach Falls.

ANYWAY, sorry for the long A/N! And hope you enjoyed the chapter, I particularly like this one! Thanks to hannahhobnob for the review!

Come on you 56 followers; it's chapter 20! Review even if it's just to insult or pull a Sherlock and simply say neat! See you next time!


	21. Doctor Jekyll into Mr Hyde

After throwing an icepack at Sherlock from a freezer in the back of the warehouse and grabbing their things, they finally headed off to the crime scene. Sherlock held icepack to his jaw while Jen just grimaced and bared the pain in her ribs. Luckily, she was used to having the living hell beat out of her in the fight ring. Still, it meant someone would have to set her ribs for her. Damon should be able to do it for her when he came home later that evening. She really had no desire to go the hospital today- or any day for that mattered.

"What the hell happened to you two?!" Donovan asked looking between Sherlock and Jen as they approached the police tape surrounding another abandoned building similar to the first.

"You know what they say?" Jen said as they walked past the tape. "Sex isn't fun unless it's violent… or is that just me?" The look on Donovan's face was worth it, and Jen had to cough to hide her laughing. Sherlock had a half a mind to scold her, or at least give her one of his looks that told her to stop talking, but the look on Donovan's face was rather entertaining, so he allowed the comment. "Have you been working on this case at all with John?" she asked as they entered the house.

"Only yesterday," he informed her as he shifted the icepack. She grimaced. She really should have hit somewhere other that the face. He had a rather nice face- not that she would tell him that.

"Find anything of interest?" she asked sweeping any guilt she felt under the rug. He deserved it, she told herself, even if the actions that caused her anger toward him happened years ago.

"They're all in the care of a child, a child that's now missing," he told her as she paused and looked at the stairs leading up the crime scene.

"Stairs," she growled, "my arch nemesis." She sighed before she set her crutches against the wall. Sherlock had already started up the stairs as she slowly but surely made her way up. She winced with every step.

The crime scene was very similar to the first. They were both up a flight of stairs of an abandoned house, both the victims had their chests cracked open to show their organs, and both naked with just the cloth over their genitals. Lestrade turned to the two as they entered.

"What in the hell happened to you two!?" he asked his face filled with panic as he looked between the battered pair that entered the room.

"Mugged," Jen siad quickly. "We were mugged."

"Was this before or after the violent sex?" a man asked her leaning in the door. Clearly, he had been gossiping like a teenage girl with Donovan. This must have been the man called Anderson that she had heard from both John and Sherlock was one of Scotland Yard's most incompetent.

"During," she said as if it was obvious. Sherlock seemed amused by the whole thing, and so he allowed her to continue with her rather ridiculous story figuring that if anyone believed it they were even stupider than he previously believed- a rather impressive accomplishment.

"How can you be mugged during-"

"Awkwardly," she assured him slamming the door in his face, so Sherlock could focus without an idiot asking a question. "Did you get anything from the bullet in my leg?" she asked him absently as she made her way to the window. She looked outside down at the crowd that was watching the investigation take place.

"Bullet?" Lestrade asked. "What bullet?"

"No," he told her ignoring Lestrade as he leaned down to inspect the victim. "The make of the gun is rather common."

"Wonderful," she said sarcastically. "Well, do you have any ideas?"

"Three," he informed her as he lifted up the victim's hand carefully to inspect it.

"The most likely?" she asked.

"The children missing are all lookalikes," he told her. He knew she could figure it out from the simple phrase; as much as he hated to admit it, Jen was clever, very clever, and she had previous experience in law enforcement.

"Children are all…," she muttered her eyes darting between the crowd below. "Oh… he's trying to find a child to replace someone who's dead. Who?"

"Daughter or sister," he told her. "More likely daughter."

"Is he a mortician?" she asked absently. Sherlock paused and looked up to her still standing at the window.

"What?" he asked her.

"Is the killer a mortician?" she asked again as she moved away from the window and approached him and the body.

"Why do you believe he's a mortician?" he asked her shinning the small flashlight he was using on her. She flinched. "Could be doctor?" he told her. She shook her head. "Why not?" he asked her. She shrugged. "Ginny," he snapped grabbing her hand and pulling her down to her knees next to him, "you're observing, but you're not noticing it. There's something telling you he's a mortician, what is it? Look for the clues. What is it that makes you say that?" She looked at the body more carefully before she shrugged. "Ginny," he snapped getting frustracted, "think."

"It's… it's the cloth," she told him nodding to the only thing giving the victim any discretion. "Morticians… they place a cloth of the body's genitals for modesty. A doctor wouldn't do that." Sherlock paused and looked at the cloth he hadn't really cared to decide why the killer had left, but it had all been so obvious.

"Of course," he muttered looking at the cloth. "A mortician!" he shouted grabbing the cloth. He ran out of the room leaving Jen. She sighed heavily not quite used to Sherlock running off and forgetting everyone else as soon as a piece, a clue falls in place. Ah, well.

"Must be hell to live with him," Lestrade remarked watching her slowly get off the ground Sherlock had pulled her onto rather roughly. She laughed and nodded.

"You sort of get used to him," she said with a shrug as she made her way wincing out of the room and down the stairs. Sherlock was gone from her sight. She caught a cab easily with a raise of her hand.

During the cab ride, she found herself letting her mind wander as she stared out the window. It was perhaps fate, if she believed in that sort of thing, that at that exact moment caused a man to come walking calmly out of the house he inhabited. He was a rather attractive man with a little dark stubble that matched his neat black hair. He wore a simple jacket with jeans and a white t-shirt. He was ordinary, but they always were. Psychopaths, Serial killers, they were hard to differentiate from the rest of the crowd, but she could see it. She always could. This man, he was a killer. He was unhinged from the death of his daughter. This man was the killer Sherlock and her had been looking for.

"Stop the car," she said as the man went the opposite way around the corner. The cabbie did as she said and she all but threw money at him as she got out dragging her crutches with her. They were rather inconvenient, but her leg was still stinging both from initial wound and Sherlock's abuse of it during the fight. She made her way to the front door before pausing to look around. Of course, the door was locked, but after barely getting by as a teenager, she had learned to pick locks rather easily with a hair pin she always kept out of sight in her hair.

The door swung open to a plain dark house. She gently shut the door. Feeling fairly confident that there was no one else in the house besides any of the missing children, she called out.

"Hello?" she called walking forward. "Anyone there?" She knew that the likelihood of someone hearing her and being able to respond was slim to none, but she had to try. "Hello?" she called walking forward. She moved farther into the house before entering the parlor. "Hello?" she called again. She heard a tapping on the pipes, tink, tink, that could have easily been the house creaking. "Hello?" she questioned again. More tapping. She got down and put her ear to the floor. "Tap three times if you hear me," she called. Tink, tink, tink. The rapping stopped. Her body jolted as she looked around. There was no door to the basement anywhere. "Do you know where the basement door is? Once for no. Twice for yes." Tink, tink. "In the sitting room?" Tink, tink. Jen looked around at the room. There was no door but the one she entered through. "Hidden?" Tink, tink. "To the left of the room?" Tink. "Right?" Tink. Jen frowned before looking around. "Middle?" Tink, tink. She paused before her eyes fell on the main attraction of the palor, a fireplace. "The fireplace?" she questioned confused. Tink, tink. The responder started rapidly hitting the pipes telling her to hurry. She approached the fireplace looking around it before getting down to the floor and looking inside it. There below three fresh, unburned logs on a metal rack was a small metal handle. Jen moved the logs and pulled. The bottom of the fireplace pulled up revealing a small wooden ladder.

Quickly as she could, Jen crawled down into the basement. It was dark with a single light bulb illuminating a clean metal medical table the gravel around it was soaked crimson telling the stories of what it had seen. Metal, stained tools lay near on a small table, tools used for medicine turned into weapons.

"Where are you?" she asked ripping her eyes the scene looking around. Tapping from her left led her running to a very small segregated part of the basement. It was illuminated by a nightlight in an old electrical socket showing her a small shabby bed with raggedy sheets. A glass of water was placed on an old wooden side table next to it, but she wasn't concerned by any of this. She was concerned by the little girl sitting on the bed looking at her with doe eyes. She was only about six or seven with blonde hair and big blue eyes. She was dirty from her imprisonment, and her mouth was currently gagged by a cloth. Her hands were pinned below her with a set of handcuffs looped around a pipe. Jen first removed the gag before she went to unlock the handcuffs with her hairpin.

"Who are you?" the girl asked trying to control any sobbing ready to escape her.

"My name is Ginny," she replied though she wasn't sure why she chose to be called Ginny by the girl. "What about you sweetheart?"

"Lucy," she muttered before the tears came rushing out. "I was… I was with my mommy, and she… he… is she okay?" Ginny unlocked the handcuffs before turning to the girl. She wasn't sure how to tell her that her mother had been horribly massacred, so she avoided the subject.

"Sweetie, I'm sorry," she said kissing the top of her head, "but we can't talk now."

"He might come back," the little girl quiver gripping Jen tight.

"I'm going to get you out," she told her picking up the little girl. With her crutches gone and the little girl in her arms, she felt pain run through her body, but she ground her teeth and bore it as she had no time for selfish thoughts of her own pain. It was a slight struggle to get out of the fireplace with the girl in her arms, but the girl seemed to be in shock and wasn't much use. However, time was of the essence and by the time Jen and Lucy were out of the fireplace, the front door opened and slammed. Jen hurried to put the trapdoor and the logs back into place as Lucy hid behind the open door to the parlor room. Jen joined her just as the man walked in whistling to himself. As soon as he walked in, Jen grabbed Lucy and quietly made to slip out the door.

"Someone's been here," he muttered looking at the logs. He turned around and stared right at Jen, who grabbed the doorknob and shut it holding the doorknob with every bit of strength she had as the man tried to get to the other side.

"Check the front door!" she yelled at Lucy. The girl ran to the door and tried to pry it open. She shook her head frantically. Locked on the inside. Not unheard of if you were trying to prevent someone from leaving. "Lucy," she whispered to the little girl, "run and hide." The girl was about to run but paused.

"What about you?" Jen didn't answer, so the little girl stood there and stared at her. "Not without you." This girl… this little girl was a saint. How was that possible? Terrified, she wouldn't leave her savior.

"Lucy-" but she knew that look. She was the overuser of that look, the look of stubbornness that would not break. "When I say, I'm going to let go of the door," she whispered, "and I'm going to grab you and run. Yes?" The little girl nodded before Jen took a deep breath to get the timing right. If she let go of the handle when the killer pulled, he would stumble enough for her to at least get a slight head start. "Now!" she shouted scooping up the little girl as she let go of the handle and sprinted for the stairs. She ran up them as he ran out the door. He saw them, but she knew he would. She ran into the first room she could find and pushed a dresser in front of it. Gasping, she leaned against it before she threw a side table followed by a chair to block the door. She pressed against it to keep it in place. The little girl was crying as terror overtook her. Jen was on the verge of some sort of panic attack, and she did the only thing she could. She called someone who could save her: Sherlock Holmes.

"Sh-Sherlock," she stuttered into the phone as the banging got louder. "Help me! Dear God, help me!"

"I'm coming," he told her with strain in his voice. "I figured it out, Ginny. I'm coming."

"Please, hurry. Don't be late," she told him as the sound of something breaking through the wall near the door alarmed her. Lucy started screaming.

"Ginny!" Sherlock shouted alarmed. She would have felt touched by his slight emotional outburst for her safety if she hadn't been about to have her life threatened.

"Bye, Mr. Holmes," she muttered as she hung up realizing she would have to try to fight this man and defend Lucy at the same time. He better not have gun. She stumbled backward as she watched an axe swing into the wall. It crumbled at the serial killer entered the room with Lucy and Jen. She was psychiatrist, but there was no reasoning with this man. She knew that.

"Lucy, stay behind me at all time, love," Jen told her, and Lucy scrambled behind her as the man watched her with wide eyes.

"Sonia," the man whispered to Lucy, "get away from her. She's trying to hurt you!" He swung his axe at Jen, and she ducked pulling Lucy with her.

"Please, sir," Jen said having to try, "you're delusional. This girl is not your Sonia."

"Of course you think that!" he shouted taking another swing. She dodged to the left. She couldn't fight him properly unless she got Lucy out of the way. So, she dodge to her left, threw Lucy in the closet near her before she faced her opponent.

Fear, fear, she wasn't good with fear. Hell, she wasn't good with emotions. All her emotions turned to some sort of rage. Rage she didn't fully understand. Rage, Sherlock understood better than her, but her rage was to be feared and never approached.

He swung out at her, but her own brand of madness had started to consume her. She ducked out from under the axe and punched him in the face. He staggered before swinging out at her.

"Get away from my daughter!" Running at her with the axe in both hands. He was posed to choke her with the handle.

"She's not your daughter!" she shouted back as she gripped the handle away from her and struggled with him. "Your daughter is fucking dead!" She kicked him hard in the stomach sending him across the room. She had control of the axe, and she kicked him down as he struggled to get up before she turned him over to face her as she stood over him with the axe in her hand. "And you're going to join her," she told him raising the axe. It was just like _that _night all over again. It felt like the last of her childhood school days as she looked down at the man with cold, angry eyes, the eyes of a killer, the eyes of a woman who knew only anger…

* * *

_It was late. Of course, it was late. Ginny was often up at ridiculous times of night, but not for the reason people thought. She was for good reason. Ginny had an outlet, a real outlet. Many thought she just did drugs and shagged anyone worth noting as an outlet, but that wasn't it. Those were just to piss her older brother, Robbie, off. No, her real outlet was the batting cages. They had one in the schoolyard, and she often took her bat she had gotten from her younger brother, Peter, for Christmas one year and just smash the baseballs in with it. There was nothing like the feeling of them ricochets off her bat in multiple directions._

_She was headed back to the dorms to catch some sleep before her class in the morning started. _

_"Ginny," a voice called from behind her. She turned around looking at the boy who had called her name. Connor Waite was a psychopath, and she knew this. He wasn't quite 1-1, but he was up there. Perhaps that's what drew her to him. The minds of psychopaths are just fascinating. _

_"Oh, hello, Connor," she said turning to him all the way. He came closer to her, and she could see a trembling madness swirling in his eyes. There was a darkness in him that usually remained carefully hidden behind a curtain as he charmed his way into people's hearts. "Is something wrong?" she absently said taking a step back from him. Her hand on the bat gripped tighter as fear tried to control her. _

_"I was just thinking," he said taking a step forward. She took a step back and her back collided with the wall that cut the garden from the more public walkway. He stood between her and any escape she made. "You and I-" he muttered gently touching Jen's pulse point. _

_"Don't touch me," she warned pulling away. She made to leave, but he slammed her to the wall. His gun was pressed hard into her skull, and she looked away from him trying to pull away from the gun._

_"Don't tell me what to do!" he shouted in a way that contorted his face, and fear took over her body. "Because," he said calmly pushing her hair out of her face, "I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do. First, I'm going to rip off your clothes and then my clothes, and then I'm going to do what I want to you, and it'll all end with me strangling the life out of that pretty little throat of yours." He made to grab her shirt, but she punched him hard in the face, and he stumbled. She didn't quite have the power she did today, she still packed a lot of power for such a small girl. _

_"If you think I'm going to die at the hands of some psychopath, you have another thing coming buddy," she told him. _

_"You little-" He threw her hard to the ground, and let out a gasp as she struggled against him. He fought for control over her body, and she fought back with everything she had. Her baseball bat laid a foot from her. "I bet you taste like sin," he commented with a grin as he pulled her skirt up. Jen's fear turned to rage as she grabbed her bat and hit him hard in the head allowing her to get up with it in her hand. She stood over him; she looked down at the boy with cold, angry eyes, the eyes of a killer, the eyes of a woman who knew only anger. He pulled up his gun and fired. The shot rang through the night, and Ginny froze in terror. She didn't know why, but no bullet hit her. _

_A rather cruel smile came over her as Connor became the victim, and she became the monster. Doctor Jekyll turned to Mister Hyde before him. He stared at her in utter terror; he had never seen her in this light. He had met his match. No, he had met his superior. _

_"I look forward to meeting you hell," she told him before she smashed his head in over and over again with the baseball. There was something particularly more satisfying smashing in a skull with a baseball bat rather than hitting baseballs. Was it wrong that she compared killing to sex? Was it wrong she was getting off on it as much as sleeping with any boy or man? It was the sign of a psychopath; she supposed it ran in the family. But there was just something about the way the baseball bat thunked off his bones as if it was foreplay, hot passionate and leading up to the moment everyone talk about, and when the bones reach their limit, the sickening snap was like climax as the rage slowed down as she hit nothing but his innards. She finally stopped and dropped her bat when he was virtually unrecognizable by even his parents, who were called to confirm his identification. _

_Ginny stared down at the body no longer enraged. What she felt was instead something one could liken to fear. Fear at how much joy she had gotten from watching him breathe his last breath, and then her fear turned and twisted into amusement as she laughed. She wondered, as she turned around intending to leave the school that night knowing she couldn't come back to this school ever again, if she would become a serial killer like Connor. He had killed nine girls in the last year, and she continued to dwell on the thought as she walked away from the school. She could really enjoy being a professional killer. She wondered if there was anyone around who paid people to do that._

* * *

Jen was fully ready repeat that night. She was ready to chop that man into little delicious pieces and savor the rush she got from it, but a strong hand gripped her wrist before she could drop to axe on him. She nearly struck out and killed him, but she couldn't kill Sherlock Holmes. She just couldn't kill him; the very idea of hurting him repulsed her.

"Put it down," he told her firmly trapping her in his steely gaze.

"He was going to kill me!" she shouted at him trying to convince him that she needed to kill him. She wanted this, and he could see it, and it both thrilled and fascinated him. "He was going to kill Lucy!"

"Ginny," he said, "you aren't a killer." They stared at each other as he made an attempt to convey to her the reason to drop the axe. Sherlock Holmes could see the madness in her eyes, and he knew that this could go one of two ways. The first way was that she could turn around and kill him first before she proceeded to chop the serial killer into little pieces. The second way was that she could drop the axe and let her anger fizzle out. Unfortunately from the look in her eyes, he was leaning more toward the first path. "Ginny," he said again, "there's a child in the closet waiting to come out. You think she'll be okay if you chop me and Mr. Harris into pieces in front of her? She'll be psychologically scarred, and you'll be left here making the decision of whether or not to become a serial killer. Ginevra, put down the axe." Slowly, she dropped the axe still staring at him. She immediately turned to the closet. "I suggest you remain on the floor until Scotland Yard gets here, Mr. Harris. I make no guarantee I could stop Ginny a second time." Sherlock looked coldly down at the man, who was bleeding on the floor.

Ginny, meanwhile, ripped the door open to the closet, and Lucy immediately clung to her making Ginny wince. She still had two unset ribs and a bum leg. The only thing that kept her up was the adrenaline that was now leaving her system. Her body was ready to collapse on her.

"What now?" she asked.

"Now, he goes to prison and stands trial," Lestrade said entering the room. Sherlock had called Scotland Yard as soon as Jen had hung up on him. The scene was all rather odd. Lestrade brought out Mr. Harris in handcuffs, and Donovan tried to take Lucy into custody to try and sort out what to do with her, but her screaming stopped Sally. Jen picked her up, and Lucy clung to her.

"She's formed an emergency attachment," Jen informed Donovan. "I could watch her if that's okay."

"She needs to be put in child services," Donovan told her. "This girl has-"

"Severe psychological damage, and I'm a psychiatrist. I'm more than capable of helping her," she said suddenly defensive of the girl.

"There is protocol here," Sally argued to her.

"Let her take the girl just until everything is sorted out," Lestrade said wearily looking at Jen holding Lucy. If he thought he had a rough night, Jen would gladly swap her night for his.

"Fine," Donovan huffed leaving the room.

"I'm going to need to get a statement from you… Jen, wasn't it?" Lestrade told er.

"Can it wait until tomorrow?" she asked trying focus her attention on the little girl in her arms. She was worried for her mental state.

"No later than tomorrow," he warned, and she nodded.

"I'm going with you?" Lucy asked her quietly into her arm.

"Yeah, with me," she muttered. "Is that okay?" The girl nodded her head quickly keeping herself pressed against Jen the whole time. "Good."

"I won't have a child living in the flat," Sherlock told her flatly as they both made their way down the stairs. Jen was wincing with every step. Tears were ready to flood her eyes in pain.

"Good thing she'll be in my flat then," she said sharply as they reached the door. She was panting from the strain on her body.

"You need to have those bones set," he told her looking at her ribcage. He was pretty beaten up himself. His jawline was slowly turning black, blue, and purple. It was swollen pretty bad but looks as if he had been attentive with the ice.

"Damon will do it when he gets home," she winced. "Hail a cab." Sherlock did as she asked, and together, they slid in the taxi. Lucy remained on Jen's lap.

"Miss Ginny?" she whispered every so quietly in her ear. "Who's he?" Her eyes darted to Sherlock.

"His name is Sherlock Holmes," she replied. "Sherlock, this is-"

"Lucinda Rinner, daughter of Maria Rinner, deceased since yesterday night. I'm aware," he told her not even bothering to look at the girl he had just informed that her mother is dead.

"Mummy went to nana?" the little girl whimpered as her eyes swelled with tears.

"'fraid so, sweetie, though you shouldn't have found out that way," she said glaring at Sherlock over the girl's shoulder. He rolled his eyes back to the window not caring for the emotions of a child.

"Are you going to be my new Mummy?" the girl whispered into Jen's shoulder.

"I can't, love," she replied terrified of the idea of being anyone's mother after having witnessed the product of mothering her younger brother and sister. She had found she couldn't be a mother; she was just terrible at it, or so she believed. "They'll find you a new Mummy, but I'm not her, but I could be someone else to you if you want."

"Will you be my aunty then?" she asked her looking up at her with doe eyes. How could she say no to such a pretty face?

"Yeah, I can be your aunty," she replied with a nod as she swept Lucy's blonde hair out of her eyes to get a better look at her.

"And you'll protect me from him?" she muttered still scared of the man who had killed her mother and taken her.

"With my life," she assured her. Lucy's eyes darted to Sherlock again, who remained surprisingly silent. Perhaps he didn't wish to dip into more emotional territory. It wasn't exactly his forte.

"He's scary," Lucy whispered to Jen making her laugh. Sherlock twitched as he looked at them briefly and then back to the outside world that passed them.

"Sherlock is only scary when he's bored," she assured her. "He can be quite nice… erm… not nice… He can be very um… well, he can be very Sherlock, and that's a very good thing to be."

"Is it?" the little girl asked.

"Oh, yes," Jen nodded. "Being Sherlock means being very clever and always be one step ahead of the bad guys. It means you, my dear, are very well protected." Jen tapped her gently on the nose.

"Can you be my uncle?" she asked looking at Sherlock.

"That would be imposs-" He stopped short when his eyes fell on the girl. She was alone, so very alone, so she was forming every attachment she possibly could. She was clever too. This little girl knew what was happening around her, and she was very aware. He stared at the small girl in Ginny's lap. She was so helpless that even he realized that he should humor her. "If you wish to call me your uncle, I will not stop you," he informed her turning to look out the window.

"Would you look at that?" Jen smiled. "Sherlock Holmes actually has a heart." He scoffed at her making her grin broadly.

* * *

A/N: Ah, I had some time again, so it's early again. So yeah, I'm rather proud of this chapter cause it's pretty uh... Jen is pretty messed up. We'll have one more flashback that involves Jen's debt to Sherlock and that will be Sherlock's flashback. I realized that the Scandal in Belgravia arch is actually after you find out about Sherlock's debt to Jen, so it's actually sooner than I thought. You'll notice a large gap between chapters that focus on the script particularly when it comes to between The Great Game and Scandal in Belgravia, and that's because it's technically a good six months or so gap between the two. Plenty to do. The only thing I'm not sure if I'm happy with is the addition of Lucy. I had a strong debate with myself whether to remove her or not but decided against it in the end as I think it's important to see the Jen as a caregiver as it is mentioned that she was to her sibling when she was younger.

**Q&A Time!**

I was asked by a guest: O.o how I came up with the idea of Jen, and even if it was rhetorical, I'm gonna answer it cause that's actually the second time I've been asked recently. So basically here's what I knew when I came up with Jen: I wanted her to have something to do with psyche for the irony of it all; I wanted her to be able to be empathic as it gives her a way to use instinct instead of intelligence to reach the same conclusion as Holmes; and I wanted her to be mentally unstable to match Sherlock's own instability. Basically, I wanted Jen to be able to almost be Sherlock's um... I suppose it would be called counterpart if you speak in terms of personality. Basically, it means they perform similar functions but in two completely different realms. She was also the product of combining four different character's from four different Sherlock fanfics I wrote parts of and then tossed to the side cause I hated them, or didn't like where they were going. These for were: the serial killer, schizophrenic, The Carver, Evangeline Farris; the very bitter Doctor Andromeda Thomas, the psychiatrist, former government official; the original Ginevra Lorraine, a former drug addict with BPD who owed a debt to Holmes and later became a linguist and crime scene photographer after becoming clean; and lastly, the very sassy Katherine Moriarty, Moriarty's former wife who separates her personality into six different people almost to the point were it seems that she has multiple personalities. The four people later- after having their traits torn apart and taking what I liked and tossing out anything I hated or seemed to Mary-Sue to me- became the Ginevra Lorraine we know (who's name was very nearly Andromeda Lorraine, though I liked the number of nicknames for Ginevra better). So, actually it was a bit daunting creating her, but I'm satisified.

**Q&A Over**

ANYWAY, thanks for the reviews! I asked, and you delivered! Thanks to SemiraBlake, HaileMarieHolmes, short-skirtbluescarf, Fishpuppy, O.o, hannahhobnob, and captaincatbones (who left me a lovely message asking some questions and made me realize that Ginlock sounds like it would be a really strong alcoholic drink, ha). See you next week, and review please!


	22. Protection

By the time they arrived at Baker Street, Jen was ready to take a bottle of pain medication, put Lucy to bed before collapsing into what she was sure would be an unease relaxation on her couch ending with her going to the fight ring again, but Sherlock had other plans. He always had other plans, bastard.

"Put the girl to sleep and come upstairs," he demanded as he made his way up the stairs. She wanted to whine and tell him off but did as she was told simply as she was too tired to argue. Lucy hopped down the stairs after her as Jen simply couldn't carry her anymore. Jen decided to let Lucy sleep in her bed, and she read her the story she often read to her brother: her mother's book. However, since it was in French, she translated it for the little girl. She was out like a light before Jen dragged herself up the stairs to 221B.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair plucking his violin strings absently. His eyes fell on her as she collapsed into John's chair across from him. She was emotionally and physically exhausted. That much was clear.

"What?" she asked with her eyes shut. She knew this would be coming; she knew he had questions even if she didn't want to give him answers, she would.

"I have noticed several more disturbing things about you tonight, Ginny, and I have questions," he informed her as he placed the violin in his lap.

"Go on," she sighed. Questions... what could he ask her and should she hold back? Would he judge her? Would he see her as the shadow she was?

"You get a rush from killing people," he told her pushing his hands together as he thought on this new revelation. He hadn't seen her kill Connor the first time around. He assumed it was all defensive. He was wrong; Sherlock Holmes was wrong. That never happened. "That night you killed Connor, it was more than just self-defense. You did it, because you wanted to. Tonight was the same. My question is this: in any time in the future, do you see yourself becoming a serial killer?" His question didn't surprise her, not even in the slightest. He was straight to the point; she preferred it this way. He didn't baby her, and he trusted her enough to be honest.

"That night I killed Connor… it was liberating," she told him not opening her eyes as she slouched down low in the chair. She felt lower than she had in a long time as his eyes watched her every movement. "It's like…" She sat up to fully and opened her eyes to talk to him as she pulled herself erect. "It's like I never knew who I was until that moment in my life. I am not sane; I am not kind; I am not calm; I'm madness; I'm violent and completely neurotic. I have all this rage building up and boiling my blood every time I feel emotionally uncomfortable, I need to do something to release it before I burn up and become nothing." She paused as she twiddled her thumbs in her hands nervously. He watched her closely. Would she tell him of her past... no, it's better he knew the present and why she could not be what she had once been. "But to take a life of another person… My problems… especially emotionally is caused by abandonment and death. My mother left me when I was eight after having an obviously large string of lovers despite claiming her love for my father. I never knew my biological father, and I assume he never wanted me. My elder brother ran off when I was eleven. After spending a series of months gone from the house, he took his shit and never came back. I killed Connor when I was fifteen. My father died by the time I was sixteen. My sister ran off by the time I was eighteen after fucking my fiancé. My younger brother was placed in Rampton the year after my sister ran off. Everyone I ever come close to leaves me, and you know why? Because I'm not good enough for them to care. I'm not good enough for them to try for me. No one will ever fight for me, because I'm not … I'm not what they want me to be. I'm not perfect, and I'm not an angel. I tried and tried so hard to be everything each of them wanted me to be. I tried to be sister, wife, and mother, and it twisted and contorted me."

"You developed Borderline Personality Disorder," he muttered understanding how she had become the way she was. The imperfect creature before him was made not born. Sherlock had always been doomed to become the way he was. It ran in his family, but Jen could have been normal had she been brought up in a different family. The unnatural need to cling to people, the fear of abandonment, her uncertainty about her as a person, the unstable emotions, all of it was created not born.

"Killing people won't be my outlet is the point I'm trying to make, Sherlock," she told him with a sigh. _Not anymore. _"Because I think about the people who have died on me and who've left me, and I think what if they had a little girl out there waiting for them to come home, and they never did. It's a vicious circle, and I will not be a part of it." She was silent as they stared at each other. She couldn't read what he was thinking, but he could read the emotion on her face clearly. It was odd. He couldn't read her physically, but he had no problem understanding her emotions. Usually, it was the opposite way, but she was the exception; she was always his exception.

"Tea?" he asked suddenly standing as he made his way into the kitchen.

"What?" she asked quietly very confused at the sudden behavior.

"Tea… isn't that normal people make for those around them who are emotionally distraught?" he asked her as he fumbled around in his cabinets. She suspected he really had no idea where the tea was; he didn't often eat or drink unless John made him.

"Yes," she said quietly, "I suppose." It was quiet in the flat except for the occasional sound of the sociopath in the kitchen making her tea. He came back and shoved the cup in her hand rather clumsily spilling a little bit on her, but she didn't mind as she took it still rather confused by the whole situation. "Thank you," she muttered as he sat back in the chair across from her with his own cup. She paused and looked at him. "I'm confused."

"I know," he replied seeing the look on her face. He, himself, was rather confused by the sudden need to help her unstable emotions; she had been filling his mind palace with useless clutter lately, and it was becoming rather distracting. Just the other day, he was meant to be focusing on a case, and instead, his mind drifted to what she was doing on the time; it made her curse her name right in front of John, who looked rather amused though confused by his outburst.

"I thought I was the Bane of your Existence," she mumbled still not understanding.

"You are," he replied simply taking a sip of his own tea as he tried to reason both with her and himself, "but I think I would get rather bored should the Bane of my Existence cease to exist."

"I see," she said tilting her head. He was trying to comfort her the best he could, and that didn't get by her. He wasn't good with emotions, or being close to another person, so he imitated things he had seen. Tea was a comfort to many; no doubt John made it often. "Thank you," she said again sipping her tea, "for caring even though you won't say you do." Sherlock paused and watched her carefully.

"You have tried very hard to be wife, sister, and mother for so long, and after that, you tried to be lover, girlfriend, leader, Doctor. Have you tried being Ginny?" he asked her appealing to her BPD.

"And who's she?" she asked him taking a look at herself in the mug. She looked particularly feral today; there was something just utterly animalistic in her eyes. It suited her rather well; sometimes, that's all she was.

"Ginny? Oh, she's the most annoying, infuriatingly intelligent woman one could ever meet," he replied trying to pull her back from her thoughts. "She's also one of the most loyal people you'll meet. It borders on stupidity really. She'll risk her life for someone she hardly knows."

"She's sounds like an idiot," she muttered with a slight snort.

"She is," he assured her. "She's temperamental and very emotional, but she can also be very even and logical when the need is called upon. However, above all, she's compassionate to those who she believes deserve it."

"What makes you say that?"

"We went to school together for two years," he told her. "I recall very vividly you getting arrested after you put Henry Wilson in the hospital for teasing Tyler Moore."

"Tyler did nothing to deserve that treatment," she told him sharply. He gave her a look to tell her see. "I… I stood up for you, too, you know?" she muttered her face slowly gaining a bit of a pink tint as she didn't want to admit that. "The others used to tease you."

"I'm aware the things they called me in school," he told her rather bitterly. School had been hard for him, and she knew that. People didn't see his brilliance, and they simply thought him to be a freak. It was unfair; it still was.

"They were awful," she told him, "and Connor and I had fought over it a lot. He didn't understand why I was defending you. Said I was in love with you even though I insisted I simply found you interesting. Your mind was a fascination to me- still is. He was jealous. I think it's why he targeted you so much. Sorry."

"No need to be," he told her. "I've long believed that night we shared a cigarette in the alley had changed the course of my life severely… in a good way." She gave him a slight smile. The door to 221 opened and shut. The two of them paused.

"Damon!?" Jen called before she winced grabbing her side in pain. There were footsteps up the stairs, and Damon appeared in the doorway.

"Hello, honey. I'm home," he teased her. And he waited for her usually mocking response, but she just turned to him in silence. "Oh, Ginny," he muttered being able to see things written on her face that no one else could, "what happened?"

"I had a rough night," she told him. "I need you to set two of my ribs from the fight with Sherlock."

"I can do that," he nodded.

"Also, there's a little girl named Lucy in our flat. I'm going to take care of her a while." He nodded again as he walked closer to her cautiously like she was a frightened animal.

"Ginny, love, I think you need to get to bed," he told her. She shook her head furiously. She couldn't sleep not now with everything that happened; her mind was running to far and too fast to sleep.

"Don't tell me what to do Damon," she snapped. Sherlock, meanwhile, looked up at the clock.

"The drug should kick in any minute," he informed Damon.

"What?!" she shouted. "You drugged me!?"

"It was necessary," he told her, and she stood ready to slap him across the face, but her vision spotted, and she quickly fell back into John's chair.

"Thanks," Damon said as the black spots grew together and turned her vision black allowing her to slowly sink back onto the couch to sleep. Sherlock watched. "You'll be alright with her in your flat?" Damon looked between Sherlock and Ginny. "I could carry her back downstairs."

"That would be best," Sherlock replied not taking his eyes off of her. Damon picked her up in his arms being very gentle with her. He was always gentle with her. Damon left Sherlock alone to his thoughts that were currently stuck on Ginny. He stood from his chair and went to his room throwing open the closet doors. Hidden in the back of the closet, Sherlock pulled a baseball bat polished clean he had foolishly kept on with him since that night. For some reason, he just couldn't let it go.

* * *

_Connor had left to go after Ginny leaving Sherlock to panic; he had to do something. He had to prevent Connor from killing her by any means necessary; his own foolish need to be right had driven Connor to Ginny. Her death would be on his hands, and he just couldn't allow that. He was still in Connor's dorm as he looked around for some sort of weapon to defend himself if need be. Connor had a foot on his; he wasn't a fool to think he could win in a fight. Sherlock pulled a kitchen knife from a block sitting on the counter. He turned to run after Connor. _

_He had no idea where he was headed, and the first place he went was Ginny's door. It was late, so logic told him she would be there, but she always had been good at surprising him. He knocked on her door repeatedly until her roommate opened the door. _

_"Oh, is you, freak" she said swaying. She was intoxicated, incredibly so that he was surprised she even recognized him. "Wha… wha do you want?" _

_"Ginny," he told her simply._

_"Check the cages," she told him before slamming the door in his face. Sherlock went running off in the direction of the batting cages, but before he could reach them, his path was blocked by a bloody mass. His heart jumped seeing the body sprawled on the pavement. He feared it was Ginny, and that he was the cause of her death. He swallowed his emotions and brought back logic. No, the mass was too big to be Ginny. Ginny was a small girl; this body was rather large. Actually, it's about the same size as Connor. _

_He moved closer and finally got a good look to see a baseball bat casually tossed to the side next to the body of Connor Waite. He wasn't recognizable; whoever had smashed his head in got a little out of hand. It was obvious to Holmes what had happened, or at least, he thought so._

_Connor had approach Ginny, and she defended herself. She had two choices kill or be killed. She chose to live, and Sherlock couldn't judge her for that. He looked at the crime scene as it became obvious that Ginny would easily be found out. She would be arrested and likely thrown in jail for the rest of her days. He supposed this was his fault, and he found the need to help her. _

_Sherlock leaned down and checked Connor's hands for any evidence before wiping them clean of any skin fragments. He made sure that no hair of hers was left on his person before standing. He nodded satisfied that there was no sufficient evidence left to convict her. He leaned down and grabbed the baseball bat. He would have to clean it of any blood and destroy it. Ginny would need an alibi too especially if she had left the school.  
_

* * *

Sherlock laid in his bed smacking the bat into his hand thinking over everything that had happened near the end. He had covered up a murder for Ginny, and she could easily expose him though not without turning herself in. He hoped she wouldn't have the sudden urge to come clean any time soon, and yet, he knew even if she did come clean, she would be careful not to expose his own lies. She didn't seek to drag him down; rather, she seemed to seek to lift him up.

* * *

_"Tell me about your relationship with Ginevra Lorraine," the detective asked of Sherlock. He looked over the man with little interest. He was near retirement, and these last few cases had him on edge. First, there was the rape and murders of nine different women in his jurisdiction, and then there was this. Connor Waite, all-star, all around great kid- or so he heard-, with a baseball bat to the head. So beaten up, his face wasn't recognizable. It was gruesome, and there prime suspect just a girl, a seemingly innocent girl who disappeared the night Connor died, and the one person who came forward to claim they knew were she went, was this arrogant, condescending boy in front of him. They would find nothing of interest from Sherlock; he was after all quite the accomplished actor._

_"She was… a friend," he told them pretending to be hesitant. Ah, yes, this would be rather interesting. _

_"A friend? A lot of people say it was more of an obsession," the detective replied. Obsession? Is that what they? Sherlock twitched; they didn't understand. Yes, he went to every show Ginny performed, and yes, he would often observe her in his down time, but it wasn't an obsession. It was a debt he owed her. _

_"A lot of people were unaware of Ginny's interest in me," Sherlock told them trying to switch to her. "We spent a lot of time together." Lie._

_"When did you see her last?" he asked. An obvious question, Sherlock thought.  
_

_"The night Connor was killed," he told them simply. Lie._

_"What time was this at?" the Detective asked. _

_"11:30," he said knowing the exact time Ginny had gone to the batting cages; he had made sure to know all the details of what happened that night, "until sunrise around 6:30." He didn't seek to be caught in a lie.  
_

_"11:30-6:30?" the detective asked. "What were you two doing?"_

_"What do you think we were doing detective?" he asked him as if it was obvious, and he'd rather not spell it out for him._

_"So, Miss Lorraine came to your dorm-"_

_"No, we met in the forest," he told him knowing his own roommate had been in at the time. "She didn't like people to know about our relation."_

_"You had a sexual encounter in the forest?" the detective asked not believing a word he was saying, but he would never be able to disprove it. Besides, he had heard more unbelievable stories.  
_

_"Yes," Sherlock told him simply. "She was never modest nor shy about such encounters." _

_"And then what? Where is she now?" the detective asked. _

_"The need to see me despite being unable to meet in the privacy of one of our dorms was prompted by a recent decision," he replied. _

_"What decision?"_

_"She wanted to get home to her family," he told him. This could very well be were she was; he knew of her troubles at home even if it was only a vague knowledge. "She was leaving, and she wanted to say goodbye. Although, saddened by the decision, I understood. She had been burdened with the idea that her family is without her for too long now. I had promised not to say a word about it until she had time to get far away from here."_

_"And the fact that Connor Waite died the same night she left. That was just coincidence?" the detective asked. Sherlock nodded even if it all sounded to planned out. "If this is just an attempt to protect your girlfriend-" _

_"You should focus on more pressing details, detective," Sherlock cut him off rather coldly. "You focus on a singular coincidence instead of seeing all the facts. Ginny as the killer does not fit all the facts. She's only about five foot; Connor was over a foot taller than her and an able athlete. You really think a small girl like Ginny could get such an advantage over him as to smash his head in?" The detective looked over Sherlock once more before he seemed to agree with his logic. "Can I leave now? I have class." The detective nodded, and Sherlock left his room amused at their incompetence. Dear lord, Scotland Yard needed his help. _

* * *

He had never told Jen that he covered up the murder for her, but she had found out on her own. Connor's case went into a box of cold cases never to be solved, and if Sherlock had his way, they never would be. Connor's own crimes were never discovered; no one would ever suspect the golden child. Rumors spread like wildfire about the crime. No one believed Ginny capable of the murder, but even more believable was the idea of Sherlock and Ginny having any sort of relationship.

Instead, the acceptable rumor became that Sherlock himself had killed both Ginny and Connor in some sort of psychotic fit. It should have bothered Holmes, but instead, he found the whole thing rather amusing. His classmates tended to avoid him until the day they graduated, and to be honest, that was a whole lot better than his previous relationship with them. They seemed almost frightened that they would be next.

Sherlock sighed and stood from his bed. He looked at the baseball bat one more time with a sort of mused expression. He wondered if he had kept it after all these years because of its connection with Ginny. Sherlock gently put it back in its hiding place in the closet closing the door to Jen's room in the mind palace for the night.

* * *

Complete darkness greeted her when she awoke. She was completely disoriented, and it took her a moment to realize that she was in her own room in her new flat. Though, she was unsure what time it was or how long she had been out. There were no windows in her room to even tell her if it was day or night. The drug had been cleared out of her system, but she was long overdue to sleep, so her body kept her sleeping though she recalls a few times stumbling awake for a drink or to use the bathroom.

Slowly, she pulled herself up and stumbled to her bathroom to shower and change her clothing. When she got out, her first concern, now that she was fully aware, was Lucy, so she went looking for her.

"Lucy!" she called through the flat, but evidently, no one was home, so she stuck her head out of the flat. "Lucy!" she called slowly walking up the stairs. "Sherlock!" she called up to 221B, but there was no answer again. She frowned. "Mrs. Hudson!" she called going to knock on 221A, but she opened the door before she got there.

"Where's Sherlock?" she asked the older woman.

"Oh, he went out with Lucy," Mrs. Hudson told her. "The girl's been pestering him for hours. I think it's rather cute. She calls him Uncle Sherlock."

"How long have I been out?" she asked confused.

"Five days," Mrs. Hudson told her. "Poor dear. Sherlock told me how you were attacked by a serial killer, and how you needed your rest. You'll be alright, won't you dear?"

"Oh, yes, I'm fine," she told her nervously, "but I'm a bit concerned for Lucy… is Sherlock good with children?" The door to 221 opened Sherlock, who's swelling on his jaw was gone and the bruise was now a sickly yellow gray, followed, and to Jen's surprise, Lucy came skipping in after him. She had one hand gripped tightly in Sherlock's and in the other was an ice cream cone.

"Aunt Ginny!" the girl cried brightly letting go of Sherlock. The girl bombarded Jen, and Jen picked her up in her arms. She seemed bigger than the little girl that shrunk against her in the cab and seemed to be adjusting well. "You're awake! Uncle Sherlock took me for ice cream!"

"Did Uncle Sherlock watch you all five days?" she asked. The girl shook her head.

"Uncle Damon and Aunt Myra watched me if Uncle Sherlock was in one of his moods," she said crinkling her nose. Jen laughed and spotted Sherlock lumbering up the stairs. "Sherlock!? She called before he reached the top. He looked down at her.

"Come up," he replied disappearing into his flat. Jen put Lucy down and together, they headed up to Sherlock and John's flat. Jen was more carefully about putting pressure on her leg than she had been; she had likely permanently damaged it. Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his hands pushed together under his chin. He looked to her.

"Any interesting cases while I've been out?" she asked collapsing into John's chair as Lucy sat at the piano bench playing with the keys.

"A few thefts and a kidnapping or two. No murders," he told her rather bitterly. She smiled slightly at the disgusted expression as if no murders was the worst thing in the world.

"You didn't take Lucy to any of them, did you?" she asked him flatly as her smile fell.

"Of course not," he replied sounding slightly aghast that she would think he was stupid enough to bring a child to a crime scene. "If I was busy, Myra would watch her; she would gotten in my way."

"My statement to Lestrade?" she questioned.

"I faked it for you," he replied carelessly.

"And what about permanent home for Lucy?" she asked him. The little girl stopped and looked at Jen.

"I can't stay?" she asked innocently. She seemed to be enjoying life in 221 Baker Street.

"Not if you have family out there, love," she told her. "That's who you belong with."

"But I like it here," she muttered quietly, but Jen shrugged off her objections.

"Child Services are looking into it," he told her. "They said it may be a few weeks."

"That's fine," Jen said with a wave of her hand. She was surprisingly calm for having been drugged. Though, Molly had pointed out to Sherlock, when she came to visit Jen and discovered her out like a light, that Jen was often drugged by Molly. "When does John come back?"

"Day after tomorrow," he replied. He paused and looked at her. "You had a visitor while you were sleeping."

"Oh?" she questioned. "Who?"

"Your older brother," Sherlock informed her making her wince. "He didn't come in. Mrs. Hudson answered the door and told him that you were sleeping and it would likely be a few days before you awoke."

"If he comes again-"

"You're not home," Sherlock told her completely understanding. She nodded before her eyes fell on Lucy, who was still playing random keys on the piano. Jen stood and sat next to Lucy.

"Do you want me to play something for you?" she asked her. The girl eagerly nodded. Her hands fell to the keys, and she played for her the first thing that popped into her head.

"What's it called?" Lucy asked swinging her legs as she watched Jen play.

"Lied Ohne Words," Sherlock replied as he listened. "Song without Words."

"Would you here one that reminds me more of Uncle Sherlock?" she asked Lucy, and she nodded bouncing up and down next to her. "It's called Study No. 11. Very erratic and chaotic." She played the chaotic piece perfectly as she had the last piece.

"Can you teach me something?" Lucy asked her.

"I could try," she said with a nod. She was set to teach Lucy piano as the day turned to night. Sherlock was surprisingly quiet despite the lack of stimulating activities. He made tea, again, much to her surprise. And Mrs. Hudson, bless her, made dinner around six as children do need to eat though both Jen and Sherlock were useless in the kitchen. "Eat something," she said shoving a plate in Sherlock's hands as she made her way to sit with Lucy at the table, which was clean off by Jen. She had half a mind to clean the entire house tomorrow… well, every room she had access to that is. "I told John I would make sure you do." Sherlock paused before he stood and sat next to Jen at the table. She looked up at him curiously. "Are you ill?" she asked suddenly letting her fork fall to her plate.

"No," he said simply looking up at her. She raised an eyebrow at him in slight confusion.

"You're being nice. Why?" she asked.

"Do I need a reason?" he asked her. She frowned. He was distressed, and he was too tired to even put up the effort to argue with her. How strange to see Sherlock not fighting to get the last word in.

"What's wrong?" she asked him tilting her head.

"No cases," he told her rather angrily. It was a misplaced anger. Something else was wrong.

"Look," she snapped at him, "there's something wrong, and I'm not going to stop nagging you until you tell me." He was silent. "Sherlock," she whined. "Shhhheeerrrloooccckkkkkk-"

"Mummy is ill," he finally told her.

"Oh," she said flatly feeling a slight pang in her heart for him. She knew what it was like to lose people you care for, and she imagined that those people were especially precious to Sherlock, who was often alone. "Would you like to visit her?"

"No," he said stubbornly. She rolled her eyes; he was being difficult.

"Great, I'll get the address from Mycroft," she said brightly as she picked up her phone to text the British Empire.

"How do you have Mycroft's number? It's blocked," he said surprised.

"Old Friend... er... acquaintance... enemy," she muttered as she sent her text and looked up at him.

"He's my archenemy; get your own," he told her making her sarcastically laugh.

"You're so funny," she mocked, "and we're going to visit Mrs. Holmes."

"You're not going," he snapped at her. "We're not going."

"Yes, we are," she told him firmly. "You may not be willing to admit you want to see your mother, but you are seeing her, and you will need some sort of emotional support, so I'm going with. By force if necessary, and if this last week has been any sort of testament, it's that in a fight, I would win, so we're going."

"And Lucy?" he asked challenging her.

"Can I come?" the girl asked, and Jen mulled this over. Jen looked to the little girl. She was handling the death of her mother surprisingly well, and one would think it to be a good thing, but Jen considered it to be one of the scariest reactions to death. She worried for the girl. But which was better? Leaving her or bringing her with add possibly having her witness a woman on her death bed?

"I suppose," Jen said making a sudden decision, "it's for the best." The girl grinned at Jen, and she smiled back.

* * *

The British government sat in his office looking over papers to the recent elections. He was a bit distracted having recently spoken to his brother about their Mother, and him refusing to see her. It was all distressing, and although, he often tried to keep his emotions on off his work, sometimes they did manage to seep in. His phone went off, and he had an- admittedly false- hope that his brother had changed his mind.

**What's the address that Mrs. Holmes is residing at? I'm dragging Sherlock there. It has yet to be decided if it will be against his will or not. –Jen**

Mycroft found himself smiling at the text. Though she made a point to threaten him every time she saw him, Jen impressed him. She could beat him with her words and her knowledge. When it came to her, he couldn't win, and he was impressed by that. It infuriated him, but he respected her for it. His brother had found someone worthy of his companionship. A woman, who didn't seek to change him, but rather understood that he was deeply and incredibly flawed, and sometimes she hated him to such an astounding level, it was a surprise she didn't kill him, and yet, she held a deep admiration for him that counteracted that hate, and Sherlock felt the exact same. Though neither would admit anything but hate for the other, it was obvious there was more. Mycroft wondered exactly how much more as he texted Jen back the address.

* * *

A/N: It's early due to potential problems with my internet this weekend. Ah, so there you go. The full story of why Ginny owed Sherlock. Meanwhile, we get to meet the Holmes family next, which I did a rather sizeable amount of research on to make it as accurate as possible. More explanation on that later. If my internet is good this weekend, I'll post another chapter Sunday, and if not it will be a sort of erratic schedule of whenever I can manage to post thought it'll still be once a week.

Thanks the reviewers: SemiraBlake, willow rain98, and Fishpuppy! We reached 50 reviews! Whoa! Going for a 100! Hope you enjoyed, and see you next to time. Review please!


	23. The Holmes Family

Sherlock was rather compliant about the whole thing after making it clear that Jen wasn't taking no for an answer. So, the following day, Jen drove toward the manor of the Holmes family with the help of GPS on her phone; Sherlock was being of no use when it came to finding the manor, because of course he never agreed to this. It was rather far out in the country in Yorkshire.

Lucy was swinging her legs back and forth in the backseat as she hummed songs that were playing on the radio. Occasionally, she would grow bored and start asking random questions, which either Sherlock or Jen answered. The questions would eventually lead to some sort of driving game. Sherlock was a spoil sport when it came to eye-spy, so she threatened him; of course, this didn't stop him. All in all, it was a rather enjoyable drive to Jen's surprise.

When they drove up the Holmes manor, Lucy's draw dropped in surprise and even Jen, who had seen some rather impressive homes in her life, was suddenly intimidated by the wealth and grandiose of the Holmes family. Yes, she had known the Holmes family wealthy, after all Sherlock and her went to the same private school that Robbie paid a pretty penny for. However, this was a bit ridiculous. She drove to the gate and pressed a button on the speaker on the wall next to the gate.

"Yes?" a voice questioned on the other side.

"Doctor Ginevra Lorraine and Mr. Sherlock Holmes for Mrs. Holmes," she replied politely as she could though she was sure that any help in the Holmes Manor was used to the lack of manners of Sherlock. She assumed it was a breath of fresh air to them.

"What about me!?" Lucy complained in the back.

"Pardon, and Miss Lucy Rinner." There was a buzzing noise and the gate popped open allowing her to drive through. She parked along the gentle circular curve of the driveway leading to the grand front door.

"This house makes me feel like a princess," Lucy said in awe as Jen took her hand. She looked up at it with stars in her eyes; Jen looked up with a slight twitch. It reminded of the days she was practically imprisoned in Robbie's home; what a nightmare.

"My dear," Jen smiled, "it is houses like this that make you want to be rescued. When was the last time you were here?" she asked Sherlock as he stared silently at his childhood home. She tried to pick out any emotion he was feeling, but there wasn't much to go by

"Nearly eight years," he said finally acknowledging that she spoke. "My brother confided me here when I had overdosed."

"Mycroft and his meddling," she tisked. She knew the feeling of meddlesome siblings; it was rather irritating.

"It wasn't Mycroft who locked me up here," Sherlock told her as they made their way up the stairs. "Mycroft wanted me to be sent to a rehabilitation center, but Sherrinford didn't." He rang the bell on the door frame.

"Sherrinford?" she questioned confused. "Who the hell is Sherrinford?"

"That would be me," a deep voice baritone voice, not much different from Sherlock's, said as the door opened. Jen took in the unknown man. He was a Holmes that was obvious, older than Mycroft, she supposed, but not by much. He had Sherlock's dark head of hair, but it was carefully slicked back and had a few lines of grey peering through it. He was slim, again not unlike Sherlock, but he was a healthy thin as though he was well fed, but never indulged in food like Mycroft did. He had Mycroft's dark even gray eyes, but his face was more sharp like Sherlock's, though perhaps less so than his. He had the Holmes' height as he was roughly six foot. But unlike, Mycroft and Sherlock, Sherrinford seemed generally amiable. He had a pleasant warmth that reach his eyes, and he seemed quite pleased to see them.

"I wasn't aware that there was another Holmes," she admitted in genuine surprise. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft (when she was forced to exchange pleasantries with him) ever mentioned another sibling. It actually didn't surprise her much; both were rather silent when it came to family.

"Ah, come in," he said moving so that she could step inside with Sherlock and Lucy. "Sherrinford Holmes," he said holding out a hand. Jen took it, and he very delicately placed a kiss on the back of her hand making her smirk.

"Well, aren't you chivalrous?" she teased. He laughed making her grin at the pleasant sound. Sherlock and Mycroft rarely seemed to take joy in anything enough that they were found smiling let alone laughing.

"Well, someone had to have some manners in this family," he joked back making her chuckle. Oh, she liked him.

"That's true. I'm just shocked there's a Holmes in existence I don't want to throw out a window," she mused. "Doctor Ginevra Lorraine, but you can call me Jen, Mr. Holmes."

"Jen… Ginevra," he muttered trying to decide on something. "Can I call you Ginevra?" She looked at him surprised. No one ever called her by her full name.

"Well, I suppose," she smiled. "This is Lucy." She put a head on the top of her head. "I'm watching her until… well, for a while," she said.

"Hello, Lucy," Sherrinford smiled at the girl. She hid behind Jen.

"Oh, she's usually not this shy," she remarked, "but I suppose it's a good sign."

"Enough," Sherlock said making the oldest Holmes brother frown. "I've come to see Mummy."

"Introductions are a necessity, Sherly," Sherrinford told him. You'd think that after years living with Sherlock he would be desensitized to his lack of manners.

"I'm not here for your trivial pleasantries, Sherrin," he sneered. "Where is she?"

"In her room," Sherrinford replied with a sigh. Sherlock went off with his brother calling after him.

"My will be here in a few hours," he called, but Sherlock didn't acknowledge him. Sherrinford turned his attention to Jen and Lucy. "I'm sure you've been bored, Lucy," Sherrin told her leaning down to her eye level. "My youngest son is around your age. I suppose you and him could play. Would you like that?" The little girl nodded excitedly.

Sherrin showed Lucy to the back yard were a younger boy Lucy's age was playing with an older girl about fifteen. Lucy, being the ever outgoing girl, went right up to them. The girl looked up to Sherrin. She was a pretty girl with blonde hair, and eyes that had come for the Holmes family as they were the ever complex color Sherlock's was.

"Hello, Father," the girl said properly. Her emotion and mental state was static just like Sherlock was. Well, that was certainly interesting; it briefly wandered through Jen's mind if she had Sherlock's mental state too.

"Averay," he said with a gentle smile, "this is a friend of your uncle's, Ginevra."

"Jen," she said with a smile holding out her hand, but the girl didn't take it. She just let her eyes go up and down Jen as she tried to deduce her, but Jen just smiled knowing the only thing she could see was that Jen was a psychiatrist and that she was a current resident at 221 Baker Street with Sherlock.

"Where's Uncle Sherlock?" she asked turning her attention to her father.

"With your grandmother," he replied. "Let him be for the moment." Averay nodded and turned back to the two children as she made her way back to them.

"Averay," Jen muttered as Sherrin gestured to a seat next to the one he had lowered himself into. "What's your son's name?" she asked as a servant came out and set tea on a tray on the table Sherrin and Jen were sitting at on the veranda.

"That," he said nodding to the smaller boy, "is Wennell, and my other son, Litwin, and daughter Sirett, will be joining us soon with my wife, Angeline. They were off at uni, and Angie went to bring them home for the week."

"Well," she muttered as she put tea in a glass followed by sugar, "the Holmes certainly have interesting names." Sherrin laughed; he had gotten the comment more than once.

"It's tradition to name our children after old English surnames," he explained.

"So are you like the other Holmes brothers?" she asked. "Deduction wise." Sherrin let a smile fall on his face, and he gave a slight nod.

"I'm much more… modest about it than my brothers. I think it's impolite to just start drilling off facts about a person you just met," he told her.

"Deduce me?" she questioned.

"Are you sure?" he asked her worried. She gave a nod. She wanted to know how much this particular Holmes could deduce about her. "You won't get offended?" She laughed and shook her head before she took a sip of tea. "You were born in a very quiet town on the east coast. If I had to guess, I would say," he paused looking at her up and down, "Braxton. You were raised briefly by your mother and father. But your mother left you early in your life… somewhere between the age of six and nine. You had an older brother and two younger siblings… one is a girl and maybe the other's a boy. Your older brother left you very young forcing you to take care of your two siblings. You dropped out of school for this purpose but was forced back in by a relation… likely your brother. He forced you to several boarding schools and several you were expelled from before you ran off after a particularly bad night. Your BPD got out of control, and you killed Connor Waite, which is why Sherlock had a hand in covering up that murder. You felt you had no choice, so you went back home, but your father died not long after. You were briefly engaged, but it was broken off. It wasn't a pleasant break up perhaps… cheating? Your sister left followed by your brother, so you went back to school in psychology and criminal justice. You graduated far earlier than you should have… likely due to cheating and connections… you conniving girl," he uttered with a smile, "and worked with Scotland Yard then the government as a profiler. Then, Shadow was formed by Christopher Black, and you were dragged with. In the end, he betrayed Shadow, you shot him, faked your own death, and got a job in London as a psychiatrist. You've recently started rooming at 221 Baker Street below Sherly, and in that small fabric of time, you've both managed to lay physical injury on each other. You have bullet wound on your leg, and two broken ribs. You've just come out of a drugged sleep and forced my brother here."

"You didn't deduce all of that did you?" she asked unsure if that was even possible.

"Most of it, I did," he said. "It's been information I've known about you for a while mixed in with information I know of people surrounding you. Unlike my brothers, I take applied knowledge of other people and the past as well as instinct to come to my conclusions."

"I humbly bow to you sir," she said with a laugh as she bent at the waist. Sherrin grinned at her. He was an incredibly pleasant man especially compared with his younger brothers. "So, how serious is Mrs. Holmes?" she asked him quietly as she sipped the tea.

"She's dying," Sherrin said after swallowing a large gulp of tea.

"Oh," she said flatly. "I'm sorry." Sherrin shook his head.

"It was kind of you to drag Sherlock here," Sherrinford told her. "He wouldn't have come otherwise. You must care about him." Jen took a sip of tea before she slowly set it back to the saucer.

"Yeah," she said smiling slightly. "he sort of grew on me… it was unexpected."

"I'm glad,"Sherrin said with a nod. "Not many people can handle Sherlock, though I suppose it helps that you are not exactly…," he paused to find the politically correct phrasing.

"Sane?" Jen offered with a laugh not bothered by the lack of tact.

"Yes," he said with a nod and a smile.

"Can I ask you… has… has he always been… well like he is?" Sherrinford paused to consider the question.

"Sherlock has always been exceptionally bright like all Holmes' and he's always been a bit… eccentric again like all Holmes'."

"You seem fairly normal," Jen commented sipping her tea.

"I am more normal than say Sherlock, but I have my eccentricities. I like to hire people to play out situations in my mind from conversations to confrontations."

"That's a bit odd."

"I find it thrilling," he commented. "Just last week I filled the pool with Jell-O to imitate a dream I had the night before."

"I suppose if you have the money," she said with a laugh. "Anyway, you were saying. Brilliant and Eccentric?"

"Yes," Sherrin nodded, "but he hasn't always been a sociopath. That didn't develop until later after Enola died."

"Enola?" she asked never having heard the name before in her life. The eldest Holmes nodded.

"The youngest of the Holmes children," he explained. "Sherlock and her were only a year apart like Mycroft and Myself, so they were very close just as My and I were close. He was very protective of her and very loving toward her."

"What happened?" she muttered quietly.

"She was raped and murdered when she was only eight years old," Sherlock's voice said making Jen jump. She looked to him standing in the doorway of the manor. He looked distant as if he wasn't all there but was with Enola wherever she was. "Her body carelessly thrown in the forest to decompose."

"It was the first case Sherlock solved," Sherrin said very stiffly. Jen found herself feeling slightly embarrassed as she tried to shrink into her chair.

"I'm sorry," she muttered rubbing her arm. "I shouldn't have asked."

"No, you shouldn't have," Sherlock told her coldly as his eyes fell on her looking her in their steely grip. She looked away to the children playing what appeared to be some sort of tag.

"No need to be rude, Sherly," Sherrin told him.

"Don't call me _that_," Sherlock sneered making Sherrin sigh. "I shouldn't have bothered coming." He turned around in a huff making Jen watch as he left. Sherrinford was pleasant enough, but he was no substitute for Sherlock, who was now angry with her. She sighed.

"I didn't mean to-"

"It's not you," Sherrin assured her sounding exhausted with making excuses for his younger brother's behavior. "He's always that way when Enola is brought up. It had a rather large impact on him."

"Master Holmes, Mycroft has arrived," a servant told him with a bow.

"That's my cue to hide," she said with a grin. "Mycroft hates me, and I hate him. Will you watch Lucy?" Sherrin nodded.

"See you at dinner then?" he asked. She nodded. "Help yourself to one of the guest rooms," he called as she started running up to the second floor.

* * *

Jen wandered the manor in a rather bored fashion, but it still provided her with plenty to look at. Holmes manor had a respectable air, but that wasn't what she loved about. She loved that it was old, and more than once she found herself gaping at a gorgeous piece of antique furnishing before pulling herself away. Still the house seemed rather empty. It was too big. She had initially come to search for where ever Sherlock had disappeared to, and now found herself looking at the antiques and gorgeous architecture of the building.

As she looked at a gorgeous 14th bench in one of the halls, she heard a light cough from one of the rooms. She paused and stood up straight from her examining.

"Hello?" she questioned moving closer to the room the noise came from. "Hello?" she asked gently pushing a door open. An elderly, sickly woman was laying her bed. She was frail but had obviously been vibrant. Her figure small, though not as small as Jen's- and her gray streaked dark auburn hair was in disarray. She looked to Jen with beautiful blue eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry."

"Can you get me that glass, dear?" she asked pointing to a glass not minding Jen's presence. Jen nodded as she stepped into the room and gently shut the door behind her. She took the glass off the dresser and handed it to her. "Thank you, dear," she said in a raspy voice as she struggled to sit up. Jen helped her. "You must be the young lady Sherlock came with," she mused looking Jen over. How many times would she be deduced by a Holmes within a day? "Don't worry, dear," she said with a laugh as if she could tell what Jen was thinking. "They don't get that from me. Their father, Siger, was the one who could deduce. I just picked a little bit up from him."

"Doctor Ginvera Lorraine," she said hold out a hand. "You can call me Jen."

"I'll call you Ginny, as my son does, if you don't mind," she said with a smile as she gave Jen a delicate hand. "I'm Violet Holmes."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Holmes," she said with a smile, and honestly, it was an honor. This women dealt with four Holmes children under the same roof. She should be given a sainthood or something. Lord knows it was likely enough to drive a person mad.

"And you," she smiled. "Sherlock hasn't said much about you, but Mycroft has informed me you spend quite a bit of time together."

"Ah, Mycroft, always meddling," she scolded.

"Yes, it is rather annoying," Mrs. Holmes agreed making Jen laugh as she gave a displeased face. "He means well for his brother, but Sherlock is a grown man. He can take care... well, he can find someone to help him take care of himself. Lord knows the boy can't do it himself. So like his uncle. He forgets to eat, forgets to sleep. How I worry about that boy."

"Well, he's got friends around him to make sure he keeps well," she told her with a smile. Violet patted her hand happily.

"Mrs. Holmes," a voice said entering the room. He was an elderly doctor, as was evident by his white coat, who looked quite surprised to see another in the room. "You should be resting after that shouting match you had with your son."

"Shouting match?" Jen asked looking between the doctor and Mrs. Holmes. Mrs. Holmes patted her hand.

"I am old, dear," she said, "and my kidneys are failing. My blood type is hard to find, O-, and I refuse to use a bribe to get higher on the transplant list. If it gets here, it gets here, and Sherlock is talking about the black market." She shook her head.

"What about family?"

"Only Averay inherited my blood type, and she's too young," Mrs. Holmes told her with a sigh.

"Well, what about… someone not family?" she asked tilting her head. What was she doing? What was she offering? She'd lost her mind, hasn't she? When did she become this soft?

"Like who dear?" she asked.

"Me," Jen offered simply. "I'm O-; I have both functioning; I'm old enough."

"Oh, dear, I couldn't ask-"

"You don't have to," Jen said with a nod. "I'm offering. I have seen a lot of shit in my life, and… I believe in fate because of it. I'm here with the same blood type as you… I stumbled upon your room by chance, and your doctor is right here. What more proof do you need?" Mrs. Holmes paused before a smile fell on her face.

"My dear," she smiled kissing Jen's hand lightly, "you are an answer from God." Jen smiled at her gently.

"So when can we… do this?"

"I can have Mrs. Holmes transferred tonight and prepped for tomorrow," the doctor said. "I'll go have it scheduled now." The doctor left the room, and a voice called for her from the first floor. She was amazed she even heard them shouting. She suppposed that the sound echoed off the walls allowing transfer throughout the house.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said brightly as she stood from her chair.

"Are you sure? I'm just an old woman," she said to Jen as she reached the door. Jen shrugged.

"So become an organ donor, so that in ten-twenty years, my kidney gets cycled back in," she said with a laugh. "It's just a kidney." She left Mrs. Holmes and headed downstairs unsure what was going through her own mind.

"We're leaving," Sherlock said as she got down the stairs, and she looked around confused. Mycroft was now sporting a shiner, Sherrin had clearly been punched in the jaw, Lucy had injured wrist, Averay was in an utterly disheveled state, and the boy, Wennell was standing facing the corner in timeout.

"What happened?" she asked.

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock snapped. "We're leaving. John will be home tomorrow, and I'd rather not be here any longer."

"Can't go," she replied simply.

"Why the hell not?" he asked angrily. He didn't want to be trapped in this prison any longer.

"I'm giving your mother one of my kidneys," she said picking up Lucy, who was opening and closing her hands. "Surgery's tomorrow," she called as she walked away leaving the Holmes's in shock. The three Holme's brothers weren't quite sure what to say, so Averay said it first.

"Did she just say that she was donating a kidney to grandmother?" she asked slightly confused, which in turn frustrated her. "But she doesn't even know her."

"Ginevra can be a rather selfless woman," Sherrinford informed her absently.

"How would you know?" Sherlock asked Sherrin coldly. He didn't like the idea of anyone knowing Ginny other than him; it disturb his thoughts a bit, but he shook it off.

"Because unlike my two little brothers, I've deduced her down to the last detail, and she's confirmed it," Sherrin replied rather bored by the conversation with his youngest brother.

"You can't deduce her," Sherlock said rather heatedly. "It's impossible."

"Difficult," Sherrin agreed, "but not impossible. You should be nicer to her, Sherly. She cares for you far more than you deserve with the way you're so cold with her." Sherrin turned to leave the two younger brothers to see his mother. "Stay in the corner until your mother gets home, Wennell," Sherrin called knowing his son was about to leave the corner. The boy turned back to the corner with an angry look on his face.

* * *

"Mum," a servant said as she laid with Lucy in the yard staring at the fluffy clouds. Jen was exhausted after a rather energetic game of tag with the small girl.

"Yes?" Jen asked turning to look at the servant.

"Dinner is ready," he said. "I was told to show you to the dining room."

"Ooooo, dining room, how fancy," she said with a laugh as she rolled to her hands and knees and stood. Lucy hopped up and took Jen's hand. They followed the servant to a rather large dining room, and there was quite a bit of people. She saw Sherrin at the front of the table talking with Mycroft and next to Mycroft was Sherlock, who was talking to a boy- on Sherrin's other side- of about twenty, that Jen assumed to be Sherrin's eldest son, Litwin. He could be the mirror image of his father if he was older. Next to Litwin was a girl, who could only be Sirett, only a year or so younger than Litwin. She had the same colored hair as Averay, but unlike Averay's cropped blonde hair, this girl had long golden locks like her mother, but it was tied in an elegant braid, and unlike Averay, she had her father's and Uncle Mycroft's dark grey eyes, but she had her father's warmth in them instead of Mycroft's coldness. Just by looking at Sirett, Jen could tell she was a drug user. Next to Litwin sat his sister, Averay, and then next to Averay was Wennell. The two chairs opposite of Averay and Wennell were empty for Lucy and Jen. At the other end of the table, opposite of Sherrin, was a lovely woman just a bit younger than Sherrin. She had blonde hair that fell in a beautiful light curl down her back and warm brown eyes. Her clothes were designer, and she held herself with strength and intellect. This must have been Sherrin's wife, Angeline, a suiting name. She was scolding Wennell at the moment.

Jen slipped into the dining room sitting next to Sherlock with Lucy next to her. The room fell silent as they looked to her.

"What?" she asked looking around at the Holmes family feeling incredibly intimidated, and she wasn't one to feel that way. She felt like nearly everyone in the room was deducing her like Sherlock could. Remember how she had never felt more naked while Sherlock was looking at her? She was wrong. At this time, she had never felt more naked with the prying, inquisitive eyes of the Holmes' family on her.

"They're wondering what you're thinking," Sherlock informed her.

"You don't even know grandmother," Averay said in a chill manner, "and yet you're giving her a kidney." Jen shrugged.

"It's just a kidney, and a few days recovery, it's not that big of a deal," she replied with a shrug. She supposed it should have been, but she had a motive for her actions. It just wasn't one the Holmes were aware of.

"That's it," the oldest son, Litwin, said slamming his hand the table. "Father, I insist that we send a letter of plea to the Vatican to make her a saint." There was a laugh around the table at the seriousness at the way Litwin said this. Jen felt her face tint pink as she was slightly embarrassed by the attention and the fact that she was now up for sainthood by the entire Holmes's family despite that any sort of kindness wasn't generally in her nature.

"I'm really not that nice," she said with a laugh. "It just happened."

"She's really not," Sherlock agreed making her laugh. "I had to have three teeth replaced because of you." He looked down at her.

"You broke two of my ribs," she reminded him.

"You insisted."

"You were being a pompous twit," she replied with a pleasant smile.

"So the usual then?" Sirett commented on earning a scolding from her mother but a laugh from her father, brother, sister, and elder uncle. Jen gently hit Sherlock with her elbow to make sure he understood it was all in good humor. She gave him one of her charming smiles forcing him to let go of the sour look on his face.

"So you're a psychiatrist then," Litwin said looking at her up and down. My God, did they all have to do that?

"I heard you're the best," Sirett commented. "I watched the trial you were in. I'm studying criminal law. You were incredible."

"Thank you," Jen smiled.

"It's rather unique what you can do," Sirett said with a nod. "You can tell a person's mental state just by looking at them. Why do you think that is?"

"Well, I think it has to do with being surrounded by psychological afflictions my whole life," she explained, "and it wasn't just one. It was multiple."

"You mentioned that," Sirett nodded. "You said all of your family has a sort of psychological illness including yourself."

"Yeah," she nodded. "I have Borderline Personality Disorder, and I can usually manage, but on the rare days I can't, it usually turns into explosive rage that quickly morphs to violent behavior and then usually ends with me feeling hopeless and very vulnerable. It's not pleasant, but I manage."

"And your brother you said was psychopath," Averay said. Jen nodded.

"My little brother is currently in Rampton for…. Um… violent psychopathy behavior. His parole is in about four years, and it looks like he'll be getting out."

"You aren't happy with that though," Averay commented. Jen shook her head.

"No," she replied. "My brother- as many psychopaths- doesn't feel remorse for what he did, and I believe if he was released he would go back to his old habits, but my brother is intelligent and charming, and he can easily manipulate people into doing what he wants. He's manipulated his psychiatrists into thinking he's getting better when he's not, and he'll convince the board that he's cured even though he's not."

"And your older brother is sociopath," Averay commented.

"Watched the trial as well?" she question.

"I… I like psychology, and as soon as I heard that Doctor Facet was really Doctor Lorraine, I learned everything I could about you. I admire your books. I feel they are the most accurate in the field."

"Thank you," she with a slight smile, "and yes, my elder brother is sociopath though different from your sociopathic uncle. Robbie works with your uncle, Mycroft. He's currently the German government as he was born and raised for seven years in Germany. My brother only does things when they benefit him, and whenever he is looking me, it's because he either benefits from it, or he's angry I beat him in a battle of wits or secrecy or whatever. I currently avoid his at all costs. As for my sister, she is, as I said, a nymphomaniac with Anti-social Personality Disorder. I suppose that would classify her as a sociopath as well. She is a different sort of sociopath from brother. She's very, very manipulative like my younger brother. She knows how to play people, and generally, she only does thing if they benefit her. Though, on rare occasion, she does show a strong love toward someone and will do things in their honor. I haven't spoke to her in over ten years, but I've kept tabs. She's a business now, and she's doing pretty well for her, I suppose."

"Any interest in seeing her again?" Angeline asked.

"Uh… yeah," Jen nodded. "I… I'm not so mad at her as I was for what caused our drift. I was more made out of principle. I… think family is important, but I think it's harder to forgive them. I'm not sure I forgive her, but I would like to at least talk to her. It's been far too long."

"So on a scale of one-ten how bad is it dealing with Uncle Sherlock?" Sirett joked.

"Be nice," Sherrin warned, but Jen laughed.

"Um… Uh… depends what day," she admitted. "Sometimes we… uh… have something likened to fun together. It usually is when I'm being shot at." Sherlock smirked. "Other days we plan each other's deaths. Currently, I intend to dump your uncle in a sealed room where I will then slowly release carbon monoxide in the room as it kills him. His body will be dumped in a lime pit or acid, I haven't decided. Sort of a homage to H.H. Holmes, for the pun really."

"How often have you thought about this?" Averay asked with a grin.

"Every other day," Sherlock informed her. "I intended to dissect her will she's still alive. I think it would be interesting. I've always wanted to, and I imagine Ginny would kindly be quiet enough as she insults me on my methods."

"I can't help it if your lousy," she informed him with a grin.

"That is not healthy," Litwin said looking between the two.

"Well, neither of us are dead yet. Though I almost pushed Mycroft out the window the other day. He was being a pretentious know-all," she said smiling at Mycroft, who looked at her rather bitterly pleasant- if that made sense.

"I welcome you to," Sherlock told her.

"I'll consider it," she replied taking a sip of her water. The Holmes as well as their guest continued talking through dinner and into the evening. It was all rather stimulating. Jokes were exchanged and intelligence swapped. Questions asked and questions answered. The night rolled around, and they stumbled to their own rooms. Sherrin had a room set up for Jen with a connecting room next to hers for Lucy. Jen put Lucy to bed before she made her way back to her room. She gently closed her door and turned to find Sherlock sitting in a chair near the fire waiting for her.

* * *

A/N: I did say another chapter possibly this weekend. So there we are. Some quick notes about the Holmes family. One: Baker Street Irregulars have all come to terms with the fact that Holmes likely had another brother older than Mycroft as it would be him that managed the Holmes estate when Mycroft and Sherlock could do what they wish. Many have chosen to name him Sherrinford. This was nearly the name Doyle choice of Holmes. Two. Enola was created by another author who wrote a series about a younger Holmes sibling. I had her killed at a young age as many scholars agree that Holmes's behavior especially toward women was likely caused by the violent death of a female he was close to. Most speculate his mother, but I chose a sister. Three. The names Mycroft, Sherlock, and Sherrinford are all old English Surnames. I can't be sure of Siger (the name of his father as concluded by scholars) or Enola, but those are not canon, so my conclusion was old english surnames was a family thing. So, that was the research I used when creating this chapter.

Anyway, phew! Thanks for the reviews: SemiraBlack and HaileMarieHolmes. And I will see you all... well... hopefully next Saturday, but it's sort of up in the air right now. Hope you enjoyed! Review please!


	24. More Human Than Machine

"It's a bit late, don't you think?" she commented eyeing him carefully as she made her way into the bedroom. Despite him being there, she had no intention of changing her plans of getting some sleep. She needed to be well rested for the operation or something could go wrong. She folded back her sheets and comforter back on the four post bed. It was rather lavish than what she was used to and imagined it was like sleeping on a cloud.

"I was told to give that to you," he said absently gesturing to a night gown and robe laying on a lounge chair near the Victorian window. He seemed a million miles away, but then again, he always was compared to the average human. He was a whole other level than the rest of the world, and it was this that she found some sort of utter fascination with. She admired his brilliance in a way that seemed unfathomable. Of course, she could never admit that to him; he would just shoot her an insult back, and his ego would grow more unbearable than it already way. However, today, his distance was slightly alarming. Ever since the news of his mother, he had been on such an emotional rollercoaster that was hidden so deep it was taking its toll on her.

"That's fine," she told him quietly not really sure what had drawn him to her so late. Perhaps he sought human comfort subconsciously. It seemed a nearly impossible idea. "I sleep bare," she said as afterthought before a slight pink tinted her cheeks. She shook her head assuring herself that she had no reason to feel any sort of embarrassment in this admission to Sherlock; he never saw anything or anyone as sexual.

"Sherrin insisted," he replied as she slowly removed her small pearl studs from her ears. He was still steering away from whatever brought him to her making her uneasy. She was never really good at tact, so she just jumped right in.

"What do you want?" she asked gently as she could manage setting her earrings in a case she always carried in her purse. It still sounded harsh.

"Do you always wear those?" he frowned never noticing them. Still dodging. She would have to rip it out of him. He had a reason to be here, but he was taking caution to approach the subject. Was it hesitation as it showed him in a different light he was used to, or was it hesitation as not to completely stomp on her feelings and psyche as he had been known to do on accident?

"Yes," she replied continued to play his game. "They were a gift from my sister when I was sixteen." She went to remove a small key necklace.

"To the black lock box in you room," he noted. He had noticed a small fireproof, locked box she tried to keep hidden in her room. She hid it unsuccessfully. He had found it, when he lacked a good case, and made an attempt to pick it. He was bitterly unsuccessful finding the lock to be of a unique design.

"Yes," she replied finally having enough of his stalling even if she had to sound harsh, "but you didn't come in here to look at observe my jewelry, Sherlock. What do you want?" He stared at her as she turned to look at him; he opened his mouth to say something but seemed to be unsure. "Sherlock, what is it?" she asked more gently this time. He wasn't the machine everyone knew him to be.

"Why?" he asked her finally just diving in to the this he couldn't solve with that beautiful mind of his. "Why do you insist on doing something that you really have no need to do? You aren't part of this family, Ginny."

"No," she said as she slowly on buttoned her shirt to just her undershirt, "but I dislike endings, Sherlock, and I'll do what I can to prevent them." She gently removed her button up shirt and slowly folded it as she thought on the question. She was still a little lost at why he was so confused and why he was so hesitant with speaking with her.

"I don't understand," he admitted in a slight edge of frustration, confusion, and anger all mixed together. "Why? There has to be something in it for you."

"Why's that?" she asked as she removed her belt. She was curious in his input; it was far more valuable to her than she would admit.

"Humans are naturally selfish creatures," he informed her. She mulled over this idea before she nodded and her own actions.

"That's true," she admitted. "However, I don't find this particular act selfless." She gently shimmied off her skirt so that she was only in her knickers. She was didn't really care that Sherlock was in the room due to his asexual nature; she decided not to be embarrassed even if she felt the blush creep up her neck due to his ever piercing eyes still clinging to her half-naked form.

"Why?" he asked her as she gently folded her skirt to put on top of her clothes. He didn't even miss a bit; she wondered if he had ever seen a woman as a woman and not just a body.

"It's not like I'm dying, Sherlock," she laughed trying to sweep her side thoughts to the back of her ever changing mind. "It's just a kidney transplant. I'll be up and about within a few days." Sherlock stood in something of a huff. He approached her, but he was no good with personal boundaries, and he came too close making her back up against the dresser and nearly sit on top of it as she backed from him. She pressed her hands out touching her tips of her fingers to his chest, so that she kept him at arm's length, but she wasn't succeeding. He was still too close as her hand rested on his chest, and her face heated up from their lack of distance.

"Why?" he asked again still not at all affected by him. Her animalistic side immediately delved into ideas that could set this man on his edge and make him beg for her; while her humanistic side battle her to answer the question posed to her.

"D-Didn't I answer that question already?" she asked him stumbling a little with her sentence. This was not good, not good at all; she was in Not-Good-Town in the country of Ah-Fuck population: Jen. When was the last time she had sex? She thought over that question a little too carefully. Too long, far too long, she wasn't the whore she was in her teens and lord knows there were too few men who could handle her as a lover out there, and she needed someone who could handle her.

"No," he replied still frustrated and confused with her. "How could anyone be like you? How could anyone be selfless like you? You saved my life for no reason. You defended me and others for no reason. You raised your younger siblings in exchange for your childhood and your future for no benefit. You gave Lucy a home when you don't even know her. You are now giving mummy your kidney. I don't understand!" he told her putting his hands on either side on her head, so that she was forced to look into his eyes. He was making it worse; how could you look into those eyes and not just want this man especially now when they were brimming with emotion making his so delightfully human and so incredibly tempting. "How can you be so sickly sweet and yet deliciously hateful at the same time?"

"Easy," she told him gently wrapping her hands gently around his wrists and slid her hands gently down his arms to rest on his forearms. His eyes watched her hands; he admitted that he something of a love affair with those hands. He couldn't say why but he found them to be exquisite but even during those school days he found himself staring at them. His eyes focused back to her eyes as she spoke to him. "I can feel others' emotions. I defended you and other outcasts, because I could feel your loneliness as if it was my own. I raised my siblings, because I felt their need for a parent. I gave Lucy home because she was so scared it made me scared. I'm giving your mummy a kidney, because I feel your pain rolling off you as if it was my mother dying, and it tears me apart," she muttered her own eyes brimming with emotions she attempted to push back; she made him feel so very human, and he loathed the very idea of being merely human, and yet, it intrigued him as much as any case ever had, the idea of being human. "I can't let it tear you apart, because it would tear me apart not only because your emotions would overpower me, but to know that it's someone I care about feeling that way. You aren't static all the time, but when you aren't, the surge of emotion I feel from you is horribly overwhelming."

"I see," he muttered looking down in her eyes. The proximity between them was horribly close, and he wondered what drew him so close to her; he rather liked this closeness. Perhaps not with anyone, but with her, oh, he might just be able to enjoy this. "So you're doing this to ease the suffering of those around you to ease your own suffering?" he questioned finally understanding.

"It's horrible doing what I can do," she told him quietly as he closed the gap between them so they were touching; physical comfort was good for a person, or so he had heard. "I can never tell what my own emotions are."

"What about now?" he asked her trying to deduce what she was feeling from the look on her face. He took a shot in the dark. "Fear?"

"I don't like being open with people," she admitted to him. "My openness with you is terrifying."

"Why do you think you are open with me?" he asked curious in every aspect of her even if he hated that he was.

"You see most people without judgment. You simply see facts with no opinion. I believe you would not judge me."

"That's an interesting conclusion," he muttered gingerly brushing the hair out of her face. "Judgment is just opinion; it is not fact. It is an opinion that you are interesting; it is fact that you have a personality disorder, and that makes you rather interesting."

"Is that all I am?" she whispered putting her hands around his neck and pulling him closer, so that he had to set his forehead on hers just to continue looking at her. "Just an interesting little study in psychology?"

"If that's all you were, I assure you, I would have grown tired of you long ago, Ginny," he admitted almost painfully as the door to Jen's room slammed open, and Averay was met with an interesting scene. Her uncle had Jen, who was half naked, pinned against her dresser with his hands tangle in her hair at either side of her head. Her hands were gingerly wrapped around his neck keeping him in an intimate position. Both seemed lost in a sea of emotion. They both looked to her surprised.

"I… I'm sorry," she replied surprised to see them in what she presumed to be a compromising position, and perhaps it could have been one had she been given enough time to get him where she wanted him to be. The very idea of 'where she wanted him to be' made her freeze and scold herself. He was not that sort of man, and she does not want that sort of man. She convinced herself that she had been too lost in her primal side to care for anything other than the fact that he was male, and she wanted sex. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You're not interrupting anything," Jen lied as Sherlock let go of her rather quickly, and she gained her head back. It was about time. "What's up?"

"I um…," she held up one of the books Jen had written, but she was staring at her uncle confused as if trying to get a silent message to him. The two were rather alike, she noted, and she had no doubt that Averay got the message across though Jen was unsure if it was answered.

"We'll continue this discussion tomorrow," Sherlock told Jen as he made his way passed Averay to leave the room slightly annoyed with himself. What in the hell was that all about? He wondered. That insolent enigma had gotten in his head and stirred up his thoughts one too many times.

"There's nothing to discuss," she huffed, but he said nothing else as he left. She shook her head before she went to pull off her undershirt. Averay turned to the wall as Jen removed the rest of her clothes and pulled on the fine silk robe that lay with the nightgown. Jen collapsed in the chair by the fire, and Averay took the other chair. Averay stared at her. "Yes?" she asked raising on eyebrow at Averay.

"I wasn't aware you and my uncle were lovers," she said calmly though Jen noted a slight hint of approval.

"Oh, we're not," she said shaking her head thinking about where the night could have taken them before she back tracked her ideas again. Her imagination was running away with her again. "I was changing my clothes and an argument followed. Your uncle doesn't understand personal boundaries."

"Oh," Averay said thinking about that. It sounded believable enough; well, it was the truth. Nothing was going to happen. Nothing. She was sure she imagined the whole sexual air in their confrontation. Nothing. The man knew nothing of sex. Nothing. She kept telling herself nothing. "That makes more sense."

"Does it?" she asked slightly surprised that that was a normal excuse, but then again, it was the Holmes family.

"For Uncle Sherlock it does," Averay told her.

"Yeah," she said letting out a fake chuckle. "So what brings you to my room, Averay?" she asked curious on what exactly the girl wanted. Was she slightly bitter at the interruption? What in the hell? Of course, she wasn't! What was she going to be bitter about!? There was nothing; it was nothing!

"I had a question about something you wrote," she told her breaking Jen away from her thoughts of the nothing that happened. Jen nodded.

"Go on," she said urging Averay to ask her question. She will admit, she was curious on the Holmes girl; she seemed very clever.

"You talk about sociopaths and psychopaths and how to identify them. How do you know… if your one?" she asked. Jen stared at her carefully trying to analyze her, so Averay continued explaining. "Well, it's just that I don't imagine many sociopaths or psychopaths could self-diagnose themselves, and if they did, would that then not make them so? I just… am curious." Jen stared at her for a moment longer, and Averay started speaking again assuming she didn't understand. "Generally speaking, people who- "

"Are you concerned about yourself?" Jen interrupted her thoughts. This is the only thing that would bring Averay to her seeking these sort of answers.

"No," she said quickly looking away, but Jen let a flicker of a smile cross her face at the girl's shame. She had no reason to be ashamed.

"It's good that you're concerned. If you are concerned with being a sociopath or a psychopath, the likelihood of you acting on that nature is less so than usual. That's what you should be concerned with since most serial killers fall under either category."

"I think it would be wise for me to know if I am or not," Averay said. Jen nodded.

"I agree, and from various cues I've seen from you, I would say you are sociopath like your uncle, but do not to be so concerned. You would barely fall under the category as you show concern and a loving nature to your younger brother. But…," Jen said let her eyes fall on Averay's arms, "I would stop using. It'll only increase the likelihood of you acting on any psychopathic tendencies."

"How could you tell?" she muttered pulling at her sleeves self-conscious of the needle marks underneath. "Not even dad could."

"I've seen enough users in my day to know when I see one. Cocaine?" She nodded. "That was your uncle's drug of choice before he got clean as well. It's your older sister's as well."

"Sirett does drugs?" Averay asked surprised. Jen nodded. In her experience, family was always blind to family. "I'm… nervous to get detoxed," she muttered slightly upset with the admission of fear. "I remember when I was eight when uncle Sherlock was here trying to get clean, and… and he would start screaming and acting odd."

"Shouldn't have started it then," she said without much of a care. The girl should have known better; she was clever enough to know what would happen.

"I know," Averay admitted with a sigh. "It was just meant to be an experiment, and… it got out of hand. I thought I could… beat the addiction."

"Part of the sociopathy," Jen told her with a nod. "Try."

"I will," Averay said as she stood. She paused. "I think I should tell you… the family all have wagers on how long it takes for you and Sherlock to enter into a relationship of sorts. Make it within the year, will you? Get 100 quid on it," she grinned making Jen scoff.

"Split the money with me, and I'll see what I can do," she replied with a slight smile. Averay scoffed.

"Fifty quid only!? No way," she said looking annoyed at the very idea of splitting the money with her.

"Hey, fifty or nothing. It would take a lot of effort on my part to get your uncle to look at me as a woman not just a fascination."

"Yeah right," she tisked. "He already looks at you like a woman."

"He does not!" she argued knowing Sherlock far better than she felt she should.

"He does… when you're not looking," Averay smirked as she slid out of Jen's door leaving Jen to pout.

* * *

The following day was sort of a blur. She was shoved in a car early in the morning followed by a quick meeting with a head of the hospital, a psychiatrist to assess her mental state, and several other doctors before she was put in a hospital robe on an operating table. It was all a haze really. She had only seen individual members of the Holmes family briefly before she was put under.

* * *

"I get shoved into a car, Sherlock," John shouted as he approached Sherlock, who was sitting with Averay in Mrs. Holmes's and Jen's room, talking as Lucy sat on his lap. He had objected at first, but the girl was damn hard to say no to. Most of the Holmes lingered around the room, "and all I can think is: Christ! Doesn't your brother have a phone!? And it turns out, it's a different Holmes! I didn't even know you had another brother!"

"You never asked," Sherlock replied simply. "Evening, Sherrinford," he said noting his elder brother enter after John.

"Seems like a nice bloke," Sherrin replied- meaning John- as he seated himself near Mycroft ignoring the domestic happening in front of him. It would get sorted in the end as it always would.

"How long-"

"Ginny should be awake soon," Sherlock replied bored of the conversation and this waiting business already. "Mummy will be a little longer."

"Forewarning, Damon's mentioned throwing you out a window when we get back after putting Jen in a mental institution for thinking a kidney donation was a good idea right now," John informed him. "Molly also sends her regards, and by regards, I mean she nearly had a heart attack when I told her Jen was having surgery."

Jen sat straight up before she fell out of bed interrupting the impending argument that was occurring between the too.

"Ginny's awake," Sherlock commented bored as she stood up and started frantically looking around. Sherlock paused and watched her with fascination. Did everything this girl did have to be so damn interesting?

"This shouldn't be happening," Sherrin commented watching her with a frown.

"Something's wrong," Sherlock said standing to try and aid her in any way he could. "Ginny?" he questioned approaching her slowly as if she was some sort of wild animal; indeed right now, she was.

"Sherlock," Sherrin warned as he moved closer to the girl. He didn't want to see his brother hurt even if it was to care of someone, a shocking idea to Sherrinford.

"Ginny, do you know where you are?" he asked her trying to get her attention. He could see her dilated pupils, the way her chest moved up and down to erratically. She was having some sort of fit. "Ginny?" he questioned again. He didn't touch her. He just watched her frantic eyes search the room for something. A nurse entered the room; she looked slightly surprised.

"You shouldn't be out of bed dear," she said reaching out to touch Jen.

"Don't," Sherlock warned. Ginny's hand found a flower vase and turned smashing it over the nurse's head. The nurse collapsed, and before she could do anymore damage, Sherlock grabbed her tight throwing both of them to the ground. He held her tight as he had seen Damon done during one of her BPD fits. "Get a nurse to give her a sedative," Sherlock managed to struggle out to John. Jen started screaming.

"Let me go! I won't go back! You can't make me go back! I demand freedom! Let me go! I am her! I am her!" A nurse came running in, but before she even could reach them, Jen stopped screaming and collapsed. His hand quickly went to her pulse, and his face turned white as a sheet. "Get a defibrillator. Her heart's stopped."

* * *

John watched as Sherlock paced in front of the hospital door. She was on the other side of the door as the doctors attempted to start her heart again. Sherlock had a look on his face that could be thought of as worry. John couldn't believe it; Sherlock Holmes actually cared for someone, and out of all the people, it was Ginevra Lorraine. Who would have thought it? Of course, John knew he would never admit it.

"It wasn't her BPD," he suddenly said as he looked at the door. "She was scared, terrified, and looking for something. She was defending herself, or she thought she was. Someone was attacking her. She was remembering something that had happened to her. Post-traumatic stress disorder." Sherlock just stared at the door.

"She'll be alright," John told him trying to comfort him. He never thought he would have to comfort him.

"Her heart's stopped, John. She's not alright, not if they can't start it up again," he told him with a slight snap to his voice.

"Ready to admit you care?" John asked absently.

"Care? She's the Bane of my Existence," he replied. "Do you know how bored things would be without her? No, she makes my life more sufferable." John shook his head. Sherlock Holmes would never admit that he cared for Ginevra Lorraine. He just couldn't bring himself to admit he had a soft spot for the psychiatrist. BUT this was the closet he would get. It was an improvement, John supposed.

* * *

It was a haze afterward. She recalled briefly waking up several times. One time, she recalled trying to tell the nurse not to give her a morphine drip. Why would she need a morphine drip? The surgery wasn't that serious, and she briefly fought with the nurse before her body too weak overcame her.

"John?" she muttered seeing the blurred figure sitting next to her when she woke up next. It definitely wasn't any of the Holmes boys, too small of a figure. She recognized the soldier's posture.

"Hi, Jen," he smiled. She looked up to the morphine drip and to the heart monitor before her eyes fell on the news on the tv in the corner of the room. It had been over a week and a half. That was simply not right. "John…? What happened?"

"As soon as the anesthetic wore off… you had a fit," John told her.

"A fit?" she asked slowly sitting up.

"You hit a nurse over the head before you started screaming," Sherlock to her. She looked to him. He was seated in a corner chair of the room looking more pale and ill than usual, and that was saying something. She worried if he was getting ill. "It was rather interesting until you went into cardiac arrest."

"Oh," she said suddenly letting herself fall back to her pillow. "Huh. Well, it's been a while since _that's _happened."

"Wait, you knew that would happen?" John asked giving her a rather worried look.

"Of course not!" she told him. "I haven't had a fit like that in years!"

"Post-traumatic stress disorder based out what you were screaming," Sherlock commented.

"Not exactly," she muttered scratching the back of her head. "I've had fits for a long time now; I never really remember them, but I've been told I get pretty violent when they come around. Stabbed Christopher with a knife last time. They must have given me something that triggered it. Is the nurse okay?"

"She's fine," Sherlock explained annoyed that he was wrong about his deduction of post-traumatic stress.

"And your mum?" she asked more concerned for the good health of the woman.

"Mummy's recovery went well. Everyone's been concerned about yours. It's rather annoying," he said looking irked. His phone rang in his pocket, and with an irritated look, he pulled it from his pocket. "It's Sherrin," he muttered as he stood to leave the room.

"Sorry I'm such an inconvenience!" she shouted as he left closing the door behind him.

"Ignore him," John said. "You know how Sherlock is. He refuses to admit when he's worried. He was worried, incredibly worried."

"Yeah right," she replied rolling her eyes not believing a word coming from his lips.

"No really," John said. "He hasn't left the hospital since you went into cardiac arrested. Hasn't eaten or slept. Hasn't taken a case. Been a bit worried to be honest."

"He hasn't taken any cases?" Jen asked surprised. He didn't often eat or sleep, so that didn't particularly surprise her.

"Not one. Though he's been getting texts from Lestrade, he hasn't answered them."

"John, let's go," Sherlock said entering the room halfway.

"Where?" John asked.

"Lestrade has a case," he said.

"Jen just woke up, Sherlock! Can't it wait?!" John yelled at him making Jen laugh. She shook her head.

"I'm fine," she said with a nod. "I know he's been patient so just go."

"Are you sure?" John asked. She smiled and nodded.

"Lord knows if you don't Sherlock will start shooting things," she said with a laugh. John smiled before he stood and gently kissed her cheek.

"Get better," he told her before he left through the door. Sherlock lingered looking at Jen for a moment before he gave her a nod of his head and left.

* * *

A/N: Well, yup. Here we are. My lord, sometimes it feels impossible to write, Sherlock doesn't it. Sorry for any errors. I didn't have time to edit. In a bit of a rush. Again, next week's update is up in the air.

Thanks to reviewers: short-skirtbluescarf, neko, Flute Domination, Rodent2000XD. Hope you enjoyed! Review please!


	25. To Try to Understand Incomprehensible

She was brought back to Holmes manor to recover much to her surprise, but Mrs. Holmes, or Violet as she insisted, refused to take no for an answer. She was a rather persistent and lively- when she wasn't dying- woman. She had slight eccentricities but nothing very noticeable like Sherlock. Violet and Sherrin both insisted she stayed the week at least despite her protests.

She had taken to having psychology conversations with Averay, intellectual conversation with Sherrin, humanitarian conversations with Violet, small talk with Angie, whom was a rather quiet woman, and would often play with Wennell. Litwin would often pop up making some snarky remark while Sirett loved talking crime with Jen. Mycroft, who often visited, would often be ignored by Jen… until one day that she was quite bored and found herself walking through the manor and stopped to looking at an artfully done family portrait.

"It was painted not long before Enola died," Mycroft told her making her jump; she hadn't heard him in the hall. Jen tilted her head and looked at the little girl. She looked very much like Mrs. Holmes with her long auburn hair, and her eyes that Sherlock had inherited as well.

"Was she like you?" Jen asked Mycroft, and then rephrased her sentence to ask him exactly what she wanted to know. "You and Sherlock? Reserved and a bit eccentric?"

"No," Mycroft replied looking at the painting. He looked caught up in a memory long since passed; it was rare to see either Holmes brother feeling nostalgic, but the little girl who died did that to them, and there was something deeply tragic about the fact that this little girl who effected them so deeply was now gone from this world. "Enola was observant like all Holmes, but," he paused looking at Jen as if considering something important, "she was observant in a different way. She was a bit like you."

"Me?" she asked him surprised that she could really relate to Holmes. Sometimes they just seemed like a whole other species, completely out of her reach.

"She observed emotions," Mycroft told her. "Empathic. She was compassionate and more like mummy."

"So," Jen said looking up at the portrait at the tall man next to Mrs. Holmes. The boys had inherited his dark brown nearly black hair, "the observant and the eccentricities are from your father?"

"Yes," Mycroft told her.

"Well… what was he like?" she asked curious. She wanted to know what made Sherlock Holmes tick, and perhaps while she was at it, she'll discover what makes Mycroft tick as well. Always nice to know what makes the British government work.

"Like me," Mycroft told her. "He wasn't a particularly loving man. He was very cold and logical."

"How did your mother ever survive?" Jen muttered, and she meant it. Mrs. Holmes was married to a man like Mycroft with four small Holmes running around the house causing all sorts of havoc. Lord, she did not envy her.

"It was a love/hate sort of relationship," he told her, and somehow they had started walking side-by-side, and they were talking like normal people instead of threatening each other or trying to one up each other as they often did. "Mummy and Father would often have shouting matches that would last until one gave up, or one couldn't talk."

"That's detrimental to a child's mentality," she commented, but Mycroft shook his head in disagreement.

"The Holmes can only have a love/hate relationship as we are generally insufferable creatures," Mycroft admitted. "Despite having that sort of relationship, Mother and Father's relationship was one of the strongest I've ever witnessed." Jen dwelled on the dynamics of such a relationship, but quickly shoved it to the back of her mind not wishing to analyze such a complex anomaly.

"What about Sherlock?" Jen asked him switching the subject. "If Sherrin is a bit of a mix of your mother and your father, and you're your father, and Enola was your mother, then what about Sherlock? How did his personality come into being?"

"Well," Mycroft started signaling to her that the youngest Holmes brother was the more complicated case, "to understand Sherlock, you should understand Enola. Enola was a very compassionate girl, and she would go out of her way to help strangers. Sherlock had been taught chemistry by our uncle, and Enola enjoyed watching him working so much, he continued with chemistry showing her different reactions and watching her face light up. Sherlock was… well, he was very alone at this time. Father was always away; Mother was concentrating on trying to keep us from killing ourselves; and even as a child, he never had friends as he was always- as all Holmes- a bit of a…"

"Freak?" Jen offered hollowly. She hated that word; she had heard Sherlock called it too many times for her liking, and it stung her more than it stung him, though she knew somewhere deep down it stung him as well.

"Yes," Mycroft said in agreement making it clear as well that he hated the word too. "Enola was both his sister and his friend. She was someone he could watch and take care of, and someone who would stay at his side. He was very caring and loving toward her."

"I think you can see a shadow of that with Lucy," Jen told him recalling that he actually wasn't too bad with the girl as if he was digging up old skills and characteristics he thought where long since gone but were simply rusty.

"I believe you are right," he told her before continuing his story. "There was a rather deranged man, Louis Reddern, who lived in the outskirts of town, Enola was determined to befriend him… it was her last act. He killed her, and Sherlock was never the same. He solved the murder with the skills he's always had though they've been developing."

"So that's when he decided to become a detective?" she asked trying to piece together the consulting detective's story. It was one with as many twists and turns as her own.

"No," Mycroft replied with a frown. "He solved one other case after that, but with Enola gone, no one listened to him. It was only by lying did the police actually investigate Reddern. Sherlock claimed he saw his sister go there when he didn't. He gave up after that. He was in a dark place for a long time. He started cocaine, and he lost all hope; he was very alone."

"Something changed though," Jen commented not seeing this as the man she knew today; the man she knew today had his bouts of up and downs, but he was never simply given up. It just was not in his nature. "He got his life together."

"Something did change," Mycroft mused with just a flicker of smile, "he met someone who, like Enola, could tell when a person was in pain and would do anything and say anything to pull them away from feelings of loneliness and pain. They understood what he felt in a way no else could."

"Who?" Jen asked with a frown.

"You," Mycroft replied simply earning him a surprised face from Jen, who did not know what he meant. She didn't know Sherlock all that well in school, just those three incidents.

"Me?" Jen asked. "Oh no, I didn't-"

"You did," Mycroft told her. "Maybe you didn't know the profound impact it had on Sherlock, but whatever you said to him gave him some sort of hope. It was that moment he chose to become a consulting detective."

"Advising…," she muttered before she laughed. "I told him he could be anything an advising detective… I never thought… Did I really do so much?"

"You defended him and showed him a compassion that few people are capable of, Ginevra," he told her. "Loneliness-"

"Is a bitch," she finished nodding, perhaps not the most elegant way, but the most accurate she could think of. She understood that to someone who felt as lonely as Sherlock her words of encouragement were something dear.

"I seek an answer from you now," Mycroft told her as he paused at the bottom of the main stairwell. She paused to face him seeing the sudden seriousness in his expression. "Why do you insist on keeping contact with my brother?"

"He's my friend," she told him but then frowned unsure if that was the proper term. "Or… I think we're friends. Bit complicated between us to tell the truth."

"What I mean is what do you intend?"

"If you're asking if I love your brother, the answer is no," she told him. "I mean…-" Her face flushed pink, "there was a time in secondary school when I had a crush on Sherlock. I mean… he was just so brilliant, and it was sexy, and it's still sexy, but…"

"Sherlock's too… mentally unfit for a relationship," Mycroft finished. She shook her head.

"Oh, no… that's not it… it's just everyone I love leaves me, and I don't want your brother to leave me," Jen told him as if it was the most rational thing in the world. "So I tell myself I don't care about him, so that when he does leave… I'll be expecting it, and any love I feel for him won't be existent, because I've convinced myself I don't care. It'll soften the blow."

"I see," Mycroft said before he nodded seeming satisfied. "Have a good night, Ginevra," he said making to the door.

"Mr. Holmes," she called.

"Yes?"

"You can rest assured though… that if Sherlock was in trouble, and he refused to admit that he's in over his head, I would go to you first," she told him. "He cares about you just as you about him even if you don't think so."

"Thank you, Ginevra. It's noted." Mycroft left her with his mind wheeling from his conversation with her. A slight smile fell on his face hoping his brother would not push her away. She was simply too valuable to his future to throw away.

* * *

Sometimes he was so like a child, she thought watching as he laid face down on the couch in the Holmes Manor's sitting room sulking in the way he always did when bored. He finished his case and was dragged back to the Manor by John, who insisted on checking upon her, leaving Sherlock with nothing of interest to do but be stuck up in a house he long since abandoned.

"What's wrong with him?" Sirett asked staring at her uncle and then at Jen and John who were watching something mind numbing on the telly.

"Bored," Sherlock shouted, the first words in hours. He turned over to look at the ceiling. "This place is hatefully peaceful," he spat making John shake his head.

"Then make it interesting," Jen called over her shoulder.

"And how do you propose I do that?" he asked. Jen seemed to think on this for a moment before she hopped over the couch to Sirett and started whispering plans in her ear. She laughed.

"I love it," she grinned clapping her hands together. "I'll just go," she pointed the door before running off.

"What did you say to her?" Sherlock demanded getting up and confronting her, but she just grinned up at him.

"Wait for ten more minutes," she ordered shoving him back on the couch.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I had an idea," she told him before she threw herself back next to John to continue watching crap television for the next ten minutes until a piercing scream sent Sherlock running to the entrance hall. John and Jen followed him.

"What did he do?" John muttered to her.

"Life-sized Cluedo," she explained as they entered the hall to see Litwin on the floor covered in what they hoped was fake blood. Lucy was standing over him making him laugh and ruining the effect, but it still got the point across just fine.

"This was your idea," Sherlock asked clearly unimpressed.

"What's wrong, Sherlock? You scared you're going to lose to me?" she asked with a mischievous smile. "I'm your competition."

"Hardly competition," he said finally playing along. "So life-sized Cluedo, then? I have to find out who, what, and where?"

"That's right," Sirett told him. "I think it's a brilliant idea. I made sure it simulated a real crime scene, and we decided to add a few things."

"The victim can do it- suicide- as can a gang; it can be more than one person," Jen told him. "The weapons can be also feet- which symbolize accident, hands- by which I mean any physical attack, electricity, drowning, or starvation. It can be any room and any person in this house, and at the end, you have to give a motive from the following: jealousy, drug-induced, revenge, depression, mental disorder, fight or flight, accident, orders, self-defense, or hit-man. Sound good?"

"It's passable," he murmured making her laugh.

"Let's get started then," she said, and suddenly, there was a flurry of activity as Sherlock was already throwing out ideas at John. "Would you like to be my assistant, Sirett?" Jen asked her making the girl laugh understanding that Jen wasn't taking it seriously.

"Some tea, mum?"

"Oh, yes please," she said getting down on her knees. "Hey Litwin, how's it going?"

"You know," the supposed corpse said, "if someone told me I would be a corpse today, I would have thought them to be threatening me." Jen laughed.

"So you want to tell me how you died?"

"Man, I don't know," he told her making her laugh again as Sherlock ran off with John apparently onto something as Sirett came back with tea for Lucy, Jen, the body, and herself.

"The dead is rising!" Jen shouted as Litwin sat up making them laugh.

"Are you even going to try?" Sirett asked her.

"It was mainly to prevent Sherlock from getting into one of his moods," she admitted. "They're dreadful, aren't they?"

"I hate them," Lucy told her crinkling her nose making Jen smile at her. Jen looked Litwin up and down trying to deduce like Sherlock Holmes, but of course, she saw nothing. Without the mental state of the victim and the murderer being how they were at the time, she could tell you nothing about the supposed murder. "When will you be home?" Lucy asked interrupting Jen's thoughts.

"In a few days, dear," she replied looking up to the little girl who was watching her with a rather intense stare. She wondered if she had learned that from Sherlock; how unfortunate.

"Why can't you come home now?" she whined. "You seem fine to me."

"I need to be away from Baker Street for a bit; it exhausts me," she replied standing with tea in hand. "Let's go check out the rooms in the manor to look for clues, yeah? Body, you have to stay here. Sirett, feel free to come."

"Ugh," Litwin complained falling backing into the fake blood as Jen, holding Lucy's hand, lead the way up the stairs.

* * *

It was a good two hours before Sherlock called them back downstairs claiming to have figured it out. They head back down to gather around the body.

"Ginny, you killed Litwin," he accused making her gasp rather dramatically in surprise at the accusation.

"Did I?" she asked Sirett.

"Let him finish. Where, with what, and why?" Sirett demanded of her uncle.

"In the sitting room, with a gun, because her mental disorder," he told her simply.

"No," Sirett replied. "You're right about the where, but everything else is wrong."

"What?" Sherlock rounded on her. "I am not wrong."

"Yes, you are," she told him.

"Oh! Oh! I know," Jen said knowing why he was wrong. She was just guessing based on instinct. "Because it wasn't just me that killed him; Sherlock helped." Sirett laughed and nodded.

"Which means two weapons and two reasons. Go." Sherlock leaned down at Litwin, who was trying to remain still. He turned the boy over making him chuckle as he complied.

"A knife as well," Sherlock told Sirett.

"Right, but why? What happened?"

"I…," Sherlock seemed puzzled by the motive unsure about why he and Ginny would conspire to kill someone in this make-believe world. He looked at Litwin again. "Litwin attacked Ginny… so self-defense, and I shot him… in revenge…," he muttered though he was completely unsure at this point.

"That's about right," Sirett nodded.

"Child's play," he told her standing from the body making Ginny roll her eyes at him.

"Well, that killed two hours," she told him with a sigh.

"Bored," Sherlock told her making her laugh.

"Yeah, let's go find something to stimulate your brain," she told him heading back to the sitting room. That something ended up being chess, which he usually didn't play, but he found Ginny to be an interesting opponent with her erratic seemingly random moves.

"That makes absolutely no sense," he accused her making her smile at him as she moved her rook.

"I'm going to do it anyway," she told him still smiling at him.

"But then I can so easily put you in check," he told her.

"Can you?" she teased him as he made his next move with certainty. She looked at the chessboard unsure what she wanted to be her next move. "How have you been getting along without me?" she muttered still focuses on the board.

"It's been too quiet," he informed her. "There's no one to shout at. John gets tired of me and runs away for a while leaving me to the hateful silence. You should just come back already." She finally made her move making him frown as he looked at the board. "That makes no sense!" he shouted at her again making her grin.

"I don't make sense," she replied.

"No, you're an irritating enigma," he informed her looking at the board trying to make sense of her strategy or lack thereof. "Have you been enjoying the manor as much as I detest it?"

"Now, now, Sherlock," she told him quietly as he made his next move, and her turn began, "you should be grateful for what you have. You were born with a silver spoon in your mother; I was only born, because my mother's a whore. You have a good family, and you have many great opportunities. You were given the best education money could buy, and despite your spats, your family really loves you."

"Did you love your family?" he asked her suddenly as she made her next annoyingly illogical move. "You speak of them as if they were a burden on you."

"I loved my family very much, but we… broke apart due to unfortunate circumstances," she told him with a sigh. "It's caused bad blood between us. Peter and I are the closest as nothing has come between us."

"The murders don't bother you?" he questioned as he made his next move. She wasn't the least bit surprised that Sherlock had discovered what her brother had done.

"No," she told him. "My brother could not help being a murderer any more than you could help being a consulting detective. He's wrong in the head, and I cannot hold that against him when I am so very wrong as well."

"You have not gone about killing people," he reminded her.

"Oh?" she questioned as she moved her queen from her spot. "What about Connor?"

"Self-defense doesn't count."

"You and I both know that me killing him was far more than self-defense," she told him with a frown.

"Connor deserved what was coming to him," Sherlock told her darkly.

"Does anyone deserve death?" she questioned. "Or perhaps everyone does." He made his move allowing her to consider hers.

"It is closer to everyone than no one," he assured her making her eyes dart up to his.

"Or perhaps death shouldn't be considered punishment. It is wrong to do so," she informed him.

"How so?"

"Life is hard, and letting them move away from it is sort of a reward. Should we not let everyone live to allow for greater suffering?" she asked. "Or perhaps that is too cruel?"

"You're getting into philosophy, Ginny, so I hardly think it matters," he told her with a smile as he put her in check. "All philosophy is contradictory and is therefore void."

"You don't like philosophy," she noted.

"It's usually logical thoughts that are then contradicted. It rather tiresome," he admitted. "It's made of assumption and opinions. There's no real use for it."

"Yes, but then it asks the questions like but what use is there for anything if we all die in the end?" she told him being rather cheeky with him as she moved herself out of check.

"Useless information," he informed her as he followed her king.

"Fine let's go to cold hard facts then. I want you to tell me about Enola," she ordered making him pause and look up at her with his hand still on his knight.

"Why?" he asked not wanting to drag up the subject any more than it had to be.

"I want to know what makes you, you," she told him with a sigh. "I find you interesting, Sherlock." He paused to consider her statement.

"If I tell you about Enola, I want you to tell me more about Christopher Black," he told her making her light smile turn to a deeply set frown.

"Why?"

"Call it curiosity," he told her though it seemed more important than that. She thought about his request and felt a pang as her thoughts drifted on the man she once knew.

"I can't," she admitted.

"Then, I refuse to discuss my sister with you," he replied as she managed to put him in a check. "What?" he asked surprised by the turn of events. He looked over the chessboard to see she had rightfully defeated him with no more options.

"Check," she told him quietly. He looked up to realize he had opened old wounds by bringing up her former lover, and he didn't know why but seeing her hurting because of another man made his entire body clench in some sort of anger. He didn't like it; he hated the feeling and wanted it to go away.

* * *

"Sherrin?" she questioned as they sat across from each other outside on the veranda as they often did. Angie was out with Averay and Wennell, and Jen sought him out to ask him a few things that were still unclear. She knew he would be honest with her as he always was.

"What is it?" he asked her sipping his tea as he watched her.

"I have a few obscure question, and… I don't want questions asked as to why I want the answer. Will you answer them?" she asked taking a sip of her own tea. Sherrin nodded allowing her to start her inquiry. "What happened to your father?"

"He died in a plane crash on his way back home from France when I was twenty-one and Sherlock just ten," Sherrin replied though he didn't seem bothered by the question of his deceased father. She imagined they weren't very close; from what she heard, he wasn't the sort of man one got close to even when it came to his own children.

"What did he do for a living?"

"Same as me," he admitted. "He invested in property and trades. We come from money, and he just built on top of the money." Jen nodded.

"Has Sherlock ever been in a relationship?"

"No."

"What about Mycroft?"

"N-… Well," Sherrin remarked thinking on this, "there's a woman. We call her Mycroft's Bane, and although there's never been any sort of relationship, and he acts as though he detests her, I know that he loves her."

"But he's never acted on it?"

"Well," Sherrin sighed, "it's a bit complicated. When they met, she was prostitute."

"Okay, you can't start a story with that. Start from the beginning," Jen demanded making Sherrin chuckle as he started his story over.

"They met when Mycroft was twenty-one, and she was seventeen," Sherrin told her. "They met when Sherlock, getting into trouble even at fourteen, collapsed unconscious at her feet while she was working on the streets. She brought him to a hospital nearby claiming she was his cousin. Mycroft got the call that Sherlock was admitted and went straight there. They met, and he found himself fascinated by her. She's very ambiguous. One second she's this creature dripping in sin, and the next she's a saint. She often calls him UM, umbrella man, as when they first met it was raining, and he was caring an umbrella. Never changed after that. They had a few deals and arrangements after, nothing of the sexual nature. He would ask her to find Sherlock for him, or he would ask for information on the criminal activity in London. It was all very innocent."

"Until it wasn't," Jen laughed knowing where this was going.

"Until it wasn't," Sherrin agreed. "I don't know if he paid her or if they were in an actual relationship, but they spent a lot of time together."

"Why does he detest her then?"

"From what I understand, she up and left London one day without a word. Didn't come back for ten years," Sherrin told her. "When she did come back, she told Mycroft she needed an out from her life of shame and sin, so she ran, and she was sorry. They spent more time together, and… eventually, he woke up one day with her gone and the data from his computer wiped and uploaded on a disk she sold to the highest bidder. Her name in the crime rings skyrocketed because of it, but the next time Mycroft saw her was in handcuffs, and it was not pretty. I wasn't there, but from what I've heard, there was a lot of angry, hateful words exchanged mostly by Mycroft. He left her crying, broken, but she broke him first. She's been trying to make it up to him since. On Christmas every year, she makes a homemade cake for him, hand wraps it, and leaves it on his door step."

"Do you think he'll forgive her?" Jen asked curious about the woman and Mycroft. She didn't imagine him to be the kind to fall over a woman, but perhaps that was another life time ago before this mysterious woman had broken him into the ways of the cold world.

"I think he already has, but refuses to admit it to himself." Sherrin paused. "You know why he carries that damn umbrella everywhere? Because she hates when he doesn't have it; she met him with umbrella in hand. That was the first thing she saw when she met him, and to her, he'll always be ah… what was it she said, 'her knight with a back umbrella.'"

"I'd like to meet her," Jen said with a smile. "She sounds interesting."

"Maybe you will," Sherrin told her. "Sherlock has and so have I. She pops up from time to time. Rather amusing to see her flirt with Mycroft."

"What's her name?"

"In the criminal world, she's known as Scarlett Montreal. But her real name is-"

"Eleanora Moore," she finished with a laugh. "Small world."

"You know of her?" he asked surprised.

"I've had dealing with Elea," Jen told him. "We've um… teamed up more than once. She's actually a rather kind woman. Devious and sadistic at times, but she's also the most loyal woman I have ever met. The woman would go to hell and back for her comrades even if she doesn't like you. Elea saved my life once. I was shot in the stomach, and instead of leaving me there, she dragged my body out of the building and back to Shadow. She came to my funeral though she knows I'm alive. Interesting…" Jen took a sip of her tea as she thought of her next question.

"May I ask you a question?" he asked. She nodded. "You will be careful with Sherlock, won't you? I mean… He doesn't have many friends, and I think if one was to break that connection-"

"Sherrin, you don't have to worry about that," she told him. "Sherlock has seen me at my worst, and he didn't run. That generally means a long friendship no matter what. I'll be around as long as he wants me around and sometimes even when he doesn't want me around."

"So, you're the loyal type?"

"Always," she told him.

"Thank you," he said, "for taking care of him."

"Thank John."

"I did," he said, "and John informed me to also thank you, so I am. Thank you."

"My pleasure," she replied with a smile as she sipped her tea again and switched the conversation to something more light, but her mind continued to stray to the Holmes family and their complex lives. She wondered what she got herself mixed up in.

* * *

A/N: This is a chapter for the sake of a chapter. There's nothing really relevant to any sort of plot, I know. There's simply information for information's sake, and events for the hell of it. If anything, it's more of a character study of Sherlock and, well, the entire Holmes family really. Perhaps the one thing that is decently relevant for future plot is actually Mycroft's story as of course we'll get to meet Eleanora Moore (much later). I may or may not write a spin off for it depending on how up to it I feel.

Anyway, thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed! See you in a week! Thanks to reviewers: neko and 252020. Review please!


	26. Overdose

"Have you seen Sirett?" Averay asked her as she wandered up to Jen, who was currently trying to find Wennel in a rather intricate game of hide and seek that had lasted several hours. Jen frowned as she considered this before she twisted her hand to look at the small watch on her wrist. It was nearly a quarter to six, and the willowy young woman had yet to be seen that day making Jen feel anxious.

"No," Jen muttered. "I'll check her room; you check in the library." Averay muttered a confirmation and ran off as Jen made her way up the steps to the floor that Sirett's room sat on. The air seemed still, and she had a feeling of foreboding hanging over her. An unknown pressure seemed to pass over her, and as she reached Sirett's room, she knew she wouldn't find anything pleasant on the other side. She raised her fist and knocked on the door gently, but she knew no one would answer. Her hand pushed open the door allowing her to see the woman unconscious on the floor. She could see no rise and fall from her chest; her face was the palest shade of white as her blood flow had stopped ages ago. Jen attempted to keep as calm as she could as she rushed to the girl to check her heart. Nothing, but she's handled drug overdoses before, and if Sirett was lucky, she would be able to save her. She would be able to help her. Jen pushed her hands to Sirett's chest attempting CPR. A feeling of total panic and hopeless overcame her as she attempted to restart the girl's heart. Tears streamed down her face as she refused to give up. She could do this; she could save her… she could save her…

* * *

_The moon hung high in the sky; it would soon be battling with the sun for the dominate position in the sky. She had been out at the school's batting cages trying to find an outlet for her anger; baseball was a surprisingly good one. By the time she arrived at her flat like dorm room, there was something of a small party going on, not unusual in her dorm. Four boys and two girls sat in various places around the flat. A dark haired girl of Asian ancestry laid on the couch laughing hysterically. A girl and a boy stood half clothed staring in horror at the body of a small unconscious dark haired boy on the ground while the other two boys were shouting over him in an argument. _

_"We could just drag him out down the stairs. No one would notice," an athletic blonde told his brunette companion. "Bury him in the woods."_

_"We're talking about leaving him there to rot, Connor!" the brunette shouted._

_"He's dead already, Harry!" Connor shouted back. "Good riddens!"_

_"What did you do?!" Ginny shouted in horror looking between the unconscious boy and Connor. Connor and Harry snapped forward to look at her in horror; they seemed more worry that Ginny had walked in on the scene than potentially killing one of their classmates._

_"It's nothing, Gin. Don't worry about it," Connor told her coldly. It was clear he didn't want to help; he had every intention to bury the body. He would have no qualms about it; she always knew he was a psychopath. The drugged out girl on the couch laughed at Connor's excuses entirely too amused at the situation._

_"They told him it was ten percent purity," she giggled, "but it was fifty." She busted out laughing, and Ginny's face fell pale as she pushed them out of the way to the boy on the floor collapsing on her knees at his side before she put her head to his chest. She couldn't hear his heart beating, so she did the only thing she could. She performed CPR pushing her hand against his chest one, two, three. One, two, three. She breathed into him trying to get some sort of response out of him. She felt her eyes stinging with tears as she began begging the Gods to help her save him by any means necessary. She jumped as he gasped grabbing Ginny's wrist eyes popping open before he let go and his eyes rolled to the back of his head._

_"Oh, thank God," she muttered with a sigh wiping away the tears forming. She let her head bow down thanking some sort of higher power for the miracle that had ensued. _

_"Great, let's dump the little freak outside and finish this party in style," Connor said with a grin. Ginny made her mind very clear when stood up grabbing her baseball bat and smashed Connor's nose with it. The pong sound of the bat bouncing off his face echoed as he fell to the ground nose bleeding out over the floor. The whole room watched her silently stare down Connor seething wondering if she would go farther than just whacking him in the face with her baseball bat._

_"Holy fuck, Gin, no need to-" Harry started to defend him, but it was too late for any defense. He was lucky he wasn't the one on the floor staining the carpet red._

_"Why the fuck would you think it was a good idea to tell the kid it was ten percent!?" she shouted at the both of them. "You could have killed him! You did kill him! He was dead!" In that moment, she was terrified; he had no heartbeat, and the world nearly lost a very brilliant mind. It would have been a terrible shame. _

_"It was just a joke," Harry told her trying to get her to calm down. He didn't seem concerned the boy had nearly died from just a joke. It was just so typical of them to think of no one but themselves. _

_"Teach the little freak to mind his own business," Connor said bitterly as he stood holding his nose to stop the bleeding. Ginny pointed the bat straight at his face, and he flinched away from her._

_"Keep talking, and I'll break every fucking bone in that pretty face of yours," she snarled. She turned to all of them. "Everyone get the fuck out! I have to deal with an OD patient, and I swear to God if any of you talk to me in the next few days I'll slit your throats, and you stay away from Sherlock Holmes!" They lingered staring at her as if unsure if moving was wise in her state. "OUT! NOW!" They all ran out leaving only Ginny, the kid, and her roommate, who was still sitting on the couch laughing. _

_When he came through the next morning, he didn't know where he was. He only recognized that he was in one of the girl's dorms, and that someone had made an effort to keep him alive. He was on the couch with a damp rag on his head and a fan blasting at him. He looked around and saw the tired figure of Ginny sitting in a chair next to the couch. She was slumped over with a metal bowl with water in one hand and a half drank bottle in the other. She suddenly shot up as if she was jolting herself out of sleeping for something important. She looked around panicked before her eyes fell on him, and she relaxed. She had been the one to stay up all night taking care of him; it was quite a surprise._

_"Oh, you're awake," Ginny noted stretching. "That's good. Let me get you something," she said leaving him confused for a moment. "Drink this, and take this." She handed him a glass of water and two pills. _

_"Valium?" he questioned looking at the pills. "How did you get this?"_

_"Parker uses it for epilepsy," she told him. "I gave him a ring last night; he came over dropped it off. You didn't drink anything last night, did you?"_

_"No. It was just the cocaine. They said it was only ten percent."_

_"Connor lied; he's psychopath," she told him casually before pausing and elaborating, "and I don't mean like when people say 'oh, he's a psychopath,' and they're not serious. They being dramatic; I mean Connor's quite literally a psychopath."_

_"How do you know?" Sherlock asked her. _

_"I know one when I see one," she said with a slight smile. "Sort of like I know you're a high-functioning sociopath." He frowned staring at her surprised at her diagnosis. He had never really considered his own mental diagnosis, but he was surprised to find it fit quite perfectly. "Anyway, the cocaine Connor gave you was fifty percent; he was intending to kill you. God only knows why. Your heart stopped; you're lucky you're alive," she told him, "but it wasn't the first time I've dealt with a drug overdose. I forced valium down your throat and did what I could to bring your temperature down and keeping you from choking on your own vomit. Makes for an unattractive corpse."_

_"Why?" he asked her with a frown as he made an attempt at deducing this new side of Ginevra Lorraine; he always figured her to be like the others, to be like Connor. "Why put all the effort in? Do you want something in return? I suppose I do owe you."_

_"Weelll," she smiled, "I could lie and say I only did it because I didn't want any of my friends to go away for murder, but I won't. I put the effort in, because letting you die like that is a waste. You've got a brilliant mind, Sherlock Holmes, and maybe one day you'll do great things with it. As for what I want, there's nothing. Let's just say I can be a really giving person at times." There was a paused as young, short Sherlock thought this over._

_"I didn't know anyone in this school could recognize my superior intelligence," he informed her. _

_"Yeah, well, no one's going to take some kid like you seriously," she told him, "especially when your voice fucking squeaks."_

_"It can't be helped that I am currently going through puberty. Despite my best efforts even I've fallen victim."_

_"It's not a disease," she laughed standing and straightening her clothes before she went and reverted back to the rebel Ginny that everyone knew. He could see the visible change, and it intrigued him. "Well, do you what want. I have to get to theatre practice just drink a lot of water, and stop the cocaine for a while. Take up smoking or something."_

_"I already do, Ginevra" he told her, and she rolled her eyes. _

_"Whatever. Don't get into trouble, and um… call me Ginny," she said leaving him in her dorm alone._

* * *

Sirett wasn't lucky. She didn't wake up not when Jen shouted for Sherrin, not when Sirett was air lifted to the hospital, and not when the doctors tried to revive her. It had been too late for her, and Sirett was gone from the world, and the Holmes family grieved. Jen slipped into a broom closet and knocked down shelves and hit holes in the wall before coming back out. She faced Averay, who was trying hard to keep it together.

"What is it?" Jen asked her voice cracking.

"I… I…," Averay's voice cracked as well, "I need help." Tears started to fall down her face as she lost control of her emotions. It all flooded over, and it hit Jen like a brick wall. Jen hugged the girl trying to comfort the sudden dangerous emotional spiral she was flying down; she was threatening to crash and burn. "I thought I could control it, but I tried to stop. I can't quit the cocaine. I can't."

"Tell your father," she told her quietly.

"But… but Jen what if he… he'll be…"

"Disappointed? Yes, but he's still your father, and you want help. Do you understand?" she asked Averay before she nodded. Jen leaned against the wall as Averay left. She slid down the wall huddling her knees to his chest. She put her face against her knees trying to hide from everyone. Maybe if she had told Sherrin that Sirett was a user she wouldn't have died. Maybe if she had discouraged the girl, she would still be there.

She felt someone slid next to her onto the ground. She peeked up to see Sherlock sitting next to her. On the surface, Sherlock was a blank slate, and although it took skill to see it, passed that blank slate, Sherlock Holmes was sad, depressed really. He had just lost one of his nieces, and it was upsetting him as it would any ordinary person.

"Sherlock?" she whimpered.

"What?" he asked.

"If I leaned on your shoulder and stained your nice jacket with my tears, would you be mad?"

"No, but I can't say I would be much comfort," he told her.

"You don't need to be," she said as she let her head fall on her shoulder. Her tears fell onto his jacket. His posture was very stiff, and he really didn't know what to do, but the thing was she didn't really mind. Him just being there was enough.

"You found the body?" he asked. She nodded against his shoulder. "You tried to save her like you saved me?" She nodded again. "It was too late?" She nodded one last time.

"It's my fault," she muttered. "It's all my fault. I knew Sirett was a junky, but I didn't say anything. I didn't think it was so bad, so I ignored it. I should have told Sherrin. I should have talked to her. I should have done something. I fucked up! I fucked up, and it's all my fault!" she shouted, and he saw the swirl of emotions that would often appear in her eyes when she was about to have a breakdown.

"That's highly irrational," he told her trying to calm her down in the only way he knew how: through logic. "If Sirett didn't want help throwing her in a rehabilitation center would have done her no good. She would have come out, and she would have overdosed either way. It wasn't your fault. You did nothing but help my family." Light footsteps were heard, and Jen watched as Averay slid down the wall to sit opposite of her.

"What did your father say?" Jen asked trying to wipe her tears and straighten out her emotions. She was used to crushing her emotions down for people. It was part of who she was even if it meant in the end she would end up an emotional wreck later.

"I'm getting sent to a rehabilitation center," she told her. "He's angry and disappointed, but… he said that he's happy I came to him before… before he lost another child."

"Are you scared?" Jen asked. She nodded. "Don't be. Anything you can get addicted to, I have been addicted to, and it's scary at first, but you feel much better later. You feel good and proud."

"Will you go back to London?" Averay asked her.

"Naturally. I think in a few days once things have calmed down. I've been getting frantic calls from my patients and my younger brother. I think it's time to go back."

"Can I text you?" she asked after a pause. "While I'm in rehab?"

"Of course," Jen told her.

"Good," she muttered.

"Where's John?" Jen asked looking up to Sherlock, who was staring blankly at a wall. His eyes slowly fell on her as she had gained his attention. He was disappointed at her for swallowing everything she was feeling. It would come back later as an attack, and it wasn't healthy for her. The stress she put her body through was alarming.

"Watching Lucy," he told her. "She'll be collected soon."

"By who?"

"Her father," Sherlock replied.

"Her… her father?" Jen questioned. "I don't understand."

"Apparently, he left Lucy and her mother when she was a baby, but he is willing to take responsibility now," Sherlock told her. "So he will be given the chance."

"Oh," she muttered flatly. "I'll miss her."

"She'll visit I'm sure," he replied.

"Will you be okay?" she asked him looking at his face to try and separate any emotions he was feeling. It was becoming easier, but just because it was easier didn't mean it was easy.

"Obviously, Ginny," he replied looking at her. She looked at him before she punched him hard in the arm. "What was that for?" he snapped rubbing his arm. She hadn't to admit she had a rather good right arm.

"For lying to me you numbnut!" she shouted punching his arm again. "I'm not an idiot! I may not be able to see much, but I can tell when you're feeling something other than smugness and superiority!"

"Just because the world isn't as emotional as you," he said bitterly.

"Emotional as me!?" she shouted. "I'm going to kill you!" Her hands wrapped around his throat, and she pinned him to the ground straddling him.

"What are you two doing!?" Angie yelled walking into the room to witness Jen trying to strangle the life out of Sherlock. Sherrin ran into the room alarmed, but the alarm immediately fell from his face.

"Should I be concerned?" Sherrin asked casually watching them with the same amused expression Averay had. Sherlock had managed to knock her off him and was not the one trying to strangle her. His forearm was pressed hard against her throat.

"No," Sherlock replied.

"Ginevra?" Sherrin asked. Jen kicked him hard in the rib. Sherlock let out a strangled breath and fell away from Jen, who stood dusting herself off as if nothing at all had just occurred between the two of them.

"No," she smiled at him. Sherlock stood as well straightening his clothes. She gave him a smirk which he returned. "Just practicing for his murder."

"You think you could take me and throw me in a gas chamber?" Sherlock asked her. "I could get the upper hand on you easily."

"I would drug you," she informed him.

"I would be able to tell," he told her.

"Not if you were distracted," she told him. "I'm confident I could catch you off guard."

"Your confidence is your downfall," he told her.

"No dear, that's you," she replied with a pleasant smile. "Do you want to know my downfall?" she asked. "Think about it. You'll understand."

"Your selflessness," Sherlock told her.

"No," she sang as she left the room to be alone. She felt a little better, but she needed to vent and rage and taking it out on Sherlock was rather bad for his health.

* * *

The funeral for Sirett was small with just family, and according to Violet, Jen was now family since part of Jen was keeping Violet's body running. It was a rather dry funeral. No one cried as the Holmes family was not one to succumb to feelings, and when they did, it was usually in private were no one would see. Jen had done her crying for Sirett, and now sat with a vacant expression as she watched the priest in front of the coffin though didn't really listen to him.

There was a gathering afterward of all the people at the funeral. This included people Jen had never met, and Sherlock pointed them out to her as they sat on down a loveseat together watching the people in the room. Sherlock deduced them as Jen guessed their psychological states and current emotions running through their systems.

"Angeline's mother, Clarisse," he said pointing out a woman around Violet's age. Her hair was silver and pushed into an elegant bun. She looked a lot like an older Angie. "The man she's talking to is her father." He was a rather robust man, who reminded Jen vaguely of Father Christmas.

"Who's the man and woman talking to your mum?" Jen asked looking at a woman, who vaguely resembled Violet though her hair was not dyed as Sherlock's mum was. The man meanwhile was like looking into a crystal ball. He was the image of an elder Sherlock, though his eyes were dark grey.

"The woman is Mummy's sister, Daisy," he replied, "and the man is my uncle, Alston."

"Is that the uncle that taught you chemistry?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied not bothering to ask how she knew that slight piece of information. He assumed Sherrin told her though he would be partially wrong in his assumption.

"You look a lot like him," she noted, "even the clothes."

"I was closest to Al," Sherlock informed her, and she got up quickly as she made her way to Alston, who was still talking to Daisy and Violet.

"Ginny, dear," Violet smiled taking her arm and pulling her in front of Daisy and Alston. Alston's eyes quickly ran up and down. His frowned deepened in the same way Sherlock's did when he realized he could only deduce the smallest pieces of information. "This is my sister, Daisy," she said gesturing to the woman.

"I wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances," she said giving a small though sad smile. She held out a hand which Daisy shook.

"And this is my brother-in-law, Alston."

"Hullo," she smiled holding out a hand, but he looked at it as if trying to figure something out. She pulled her hand back and let it fall to her side.

"Oh, don't mind him," Violet tisked looking at Alston.

"Oh, I don't," Jen smiled. "I'm used to Sherlock. I think I could handle any other family members."

"It's easier to 'handle' me than it is to handle you," Sherlock said appearing at her side.

"I think that's debatable," she replied. "You shoot walls when you bored."

"You have mental breakdowns every time you find yourself feeling a higher spectrum of emotion," he retorted.

"Most times I'm convinced you don't even have emotions," she replied looking up at him. Daisy laughed.

"Gosh, it's like looking at Siger and Violet when they were young," Daisy smiled. "Young love?"

"No," Sherlock said at the same time Jen said, "Yes." He glared down at her, and she grinned up at him.

"It's just so fun to annoy you," she told him. The phone in her pocket buzzed interrupting her. She looked down. "Got to take this," she smiled walking away from him as she answered. "Hello."

"Where have you been!?" a voice shouted at her in a rather frightening tone.

"Hullo, Peter," she grinned. "How are you?"

"I haven't seen you in three weeks, Gina," he hissed. "Where the fuck are you?!"

"Oh, I've been around, love," she told him as she let herself lay on the loveseat her and Sherlock had previously been sitting on. "A friend of mine passed. I was in the hospital, and I have been terribly busy. I'll see you this Sunday coming up."

"You were in the hospital?" Peter asked quickly. "You're okay, aren't you? If anyone hurt you, I swear I'll-"

"I'm fine," she said cutting him off. "How are you?" she repeated.

"Unnerved," he answered simply. "I'm concerned for you."

"My dear, favorite brother, no need to be concerned. I can handle myself, and I do have people around me who would defend me. Don't worry about me, Peter." Sherlock came back to her, and she raised her legs to allow him to sit. She let her legs fall into his lap, and he didn't even flinch.

"I do worry about you, Jenma. You always get into trouble," he sighed. "Are you sure you'll be here Sunday?"

"I'm positive," she replied.

"How positive?"

"100%, dear," she told him. He sighed incredibly exhausted by this conversation.

"Alright, I'll see you Sunday," he replied.

"Sunday," she said. "Love you."

"Love you, too," he replied before he hung up, so Jen slipped her phone back in her jacket pocket.

"Your brother," Sherlock said. "He's angry you haven't been around."

"Peter cares about few people," she replied, "and like me, when he cares about people, he clings to them." Jen leaned her head back and looked up at the ceiling. Sherlock remained silent in his spot. His hands rested on her bare legs. "Would it be odd to take a nap?" she asked feeling emotionally exhausted.

"Yes, but for you, no. Go ahead and take a nap," he replied. Her eyes fell closed, and Sherlock watched her defenses fall as she slept. It was fascinating really to see her face fall into that of a normal woman. She wasn't anger; she wasn't snarky; she was just Ginny. Her face was calm and serene. She looked so much younger asleep. He had never noticed the weight that had held her down, a weight caused by her disorder, her family, her friends, her past, her empathy. It all kept her down, but while she slept it was gone. She seemed more carefree and much happier. He didn't understand why, but the knowledge that she held such a weight and wasn't really as happy as she could be made him feel a sudden pit in his stomach. It felt horrible, and he wanted it to go away now, but how could one do that? He didn't know.

* * *

A/N: Ah, and we come to the end of why they owe each other a debt and of course it had to do with an overdose. Isn't that typical? I considered many options, but this was the one that seemed to fit. And we come to the end of the 'Meet the Family.' A warning that the next chapter will be quite small, but then after that we start Scandal in Belgravia. Interesting developments there. Of course, I don't follow the script as that's just dull, and I retain the right to change things around.

Anyway! Thanks for reading; I'll see you all next Saturday! Thanks to reviewers: Feint Illusion, Rodent2000XD, and SemiraBlake! Review please!


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